UC-NRLF 


B    M    1DM    Ebl 


u/\YwORTHYS 


Mrs.A.D.T.Whitney 


FAITH    GARTNEY'S   GIRLHOOD. 

HITHERTO:  A  Story  of  Yesterdays. 

PATIENCE    STRONG'S    OUTINGS. 

THE   GAYWORTHYS. 

A   SUMMER    IN    LESLIE   GOLDTH  WAITE'S    LIFE. 

WE   GIRLS:  A  Home  Story.     Illustrated. 

REAL    FOLKS. 

THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

SIGHTS    AND    INSIGHTS,     a  vols. 

ODD,   OR    EVEN? 

BONNYBOROUGH. 

BOYS    AT   CHEQUASSET      Illustrated. 

MOTHER   GOOSE   FOR   GROWN    FOLKS.      Illustrated 

by  HOPPIN. 

HOMESPUN    YARNS.     Short  Stories. 
ASCUTNEY    STREET.     A  Neighborhood  Story. 
GOLDEN    GOSSIP.     Neighborhood  Story  Number  Two. 
BIDDY'S    EPISODES.     A  Novel. 
SQUARE    PEGS.     A  Novel. 
FRIENDLY    LETTERS    TO    GIRL    FRIENDS. 
THE  OPEN    MYSTERY.     A  Reading  of  the  Mosaic  Story. 
THE    INTEGRITY   OF    CHRISTIAN    SCIENCE. 
JUST    HOW:    A  Key  to  the  Cook-Books. 
DAFFODILS.     Poems.     Illustrated. 
PANSIES.     Poems. 

HOLY-TIDES.     Seven  Songs  for  the  Church's  Seasons. 
BIRD-TALK.     Poems.     Illustrated. 
WHITE    MEMORIES. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


THE  GAYWORTHYS 


A  STOKY  OF  THREADS  AND   THRUMS 


BY 


MRS.  A.  D.  T.  WHITNEY 


BOSTON   AND    NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN   COMPANY 

,  Cambribge 


Copyright,  1865, 
BY  A.  K.  LORING. 

Copyright,  1893, 
BY  ADELINE  D.  T.  WHITNEY. 


All  rights  reserved. 


6-3 


PKEFACE  TO  FIRST  EDITION. 

k 

OF  threads  and  thrums :  because  a  simple  story  of 
this  mixed  divine  and  human  weaving  we  call  Life; 
wherein  are  threads,  —  lines  lying  evenly  along  the 
loom,  and  made  secure  and  perfect  with  a  filling; 
wherein  are  also  many  thrums,  —  ends  broken,  or 
dropped  midway,  on  reaching  out  unfinished  lengths 
beyond  the  web.  Wherein  the  fabric  seems,  so  often, 
faulty;  where  much  seems  lost,  left  out,  or  wrongly 
joined;  where  correspondence  is  delayed,  and  full- 
matched  beauty  missed;  where  colors  are  confused; 
where  the  pattern,  being  vast,  may  never  quite  unroll 
to  earthly  vision;  where  Patience  keeps  her  foot  upon 
the  treadle,  and  Faith  must  stand,  with  fervent  eyes, 
beside  the  springing  shuttle,  knowing  of  breadths  that 
shall  be  woven  by  and  by ! 


405470 


PKEFACE  TO  EDITION  OF  1893. 


THREADS  and  thrums  are  everywhere.  Human 
nature  and  its  workings  are  everywhere.  But  the 
"wheres"  change.  I  am  not  sure  that  exactly  such 
a  town  as  Hilbury,  or  exactly  such  life  as  was  lived 
there,  could  be  found  now  in  New  England ;  because 
the  science  books,  and  the  fashion  books,  and  the  con 
tinual  throb  of  the  electric  wires  have  got  into  all  the 
quiet  places,  and  nothing  is  remote  or  separate,  any 
more.  Human  experience  is  all  mixed  up ;  what  hap 
pens  in  London,  or  Japan,  or  Washington,  or  Boston 
is  the  news  and  stir  in  every  little  far-off  corner  at  the 
hour  of  its  transpiring.  There  is  no  rest  from  the 
great  whirl  of  the  world. 

I  think,  therefore,  it  is  a  comfort  to  get  away  into 
a  book,  sometimes,  where  the  old  things  are  laid  up  in 
the  lavender  of  memory.  To  find  a  whiff  between  the 
leaves  of  the  fragrant  early  simplicities ;  to  sit  down 
among  the  hills  where  the  air  has  neither  sound  nor 
taint  of  tumult,  or  corruption;  to  find,  when  the 
pages  turn,  and  the  scene  changes,  even  the  cities 
young  and  primitive ;  men  waiting  through  untroubled 
months  for  their  cargoes  to  come  in  from  far,  and  even 
for  the  prices-current  upon  which  they  will  base  new 


VI  PREFACE  TO  EDITION  OF  1893. 

plans  to  be  transmitted  to  them  by  slow  mails  which 
leave  leisure  for  careful  thought  between  arrivals; 
homes  modest  and  still;  warehouses  of  limited  and 
safe  dimension,  in  proportion  to  limited,  safe  wants 
and  habits;  streets  busy,  but  uncrowded;  people  on 
their  feet,  for  the  most  part,  in  daily  passing  to  and 
fro;  no  fearful  "rapid  transit"  for  body  or  soul. 
Into  such  a  comfortable  little  world  and  time  this 
unpretending  story  looks  back ;  it  looked  back  a  good 
way  when  it  was  first  written ;  a  generation  has  moved 
on  since  then ;  it  may  have  the  novelty  now  which  the 
present  day  craves  from  the  past  in  so  many  things, 
and  mocks  with  many  a  flimsy  imitation. 

"The  Gayworthys  "  is  not,  however,  a  mock  revival 
of  really  perished  and  forgotten  things ;  it  is  loving 
remembrance.  I  remember  every  bit  of  old  Hilbury 
that  is  represented  here ;  every  bit  of  old  "  Selport ;  " 
and  I  have  not  yet  counted  up  my  threescore  years  and 

ten. 

A.  D.  T.  W. 

MILTON,  1893. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 

I.  DR.  GAYWORTHY'S  WOMEN  FOLKS        .  1 

II.    DOWN  AMONG   THE   COMPANY       ...  20 

III.  PEEKIN'  AND  HARKIN'   ....  33 

IV.  STACY  LAWTON'S  WALK  HOME  ...  53 
V.   THE  SECRET  AT  THE  HARTSHORNES'    .        .  58 

VI.   THE  DAIRY  FARM 70 

VII.  WATCHING  AND  WAITING       ....  94 

VIII.  EBEN'S  COUP-D'ETAT           ....  102 

IX.   "GABRIEL!  " Ill 

X.  ANOTHER  WEEK 121 

XI.  MRS.  GAIR  WRITES  HOME       ....  128 

XII.   THE  PEARL 139 

XIII.  PROVERBS 156 

XIV.  THE  EXPECTANT  SYSTEM    ....  163 
XV.   A  SEARCH  ;  AND  ODYLIC  FORCE    .        .        .178 

XVI.  INTO  PORT 387 

XVII.  COMING! 210 

XVIII.   BIDDY  FLYNN  AND  HER  NEIGHBORS  .        .  224 

XIX.  THE  SILENT  SIN 232 

XX.   GUILTY,  OR  NOT  GUILTY  ?           ...  250 

XXI.  THE  ROUGH  OFF 271 

XXII.  MIXED  NEWS;  FROM  HOME        ...  278 

XXIII.  MUSIC   BETWEEN   THE    ACTS    ....  290 

XXIV.  THEN  AND  Now 321 

XXV.    BROWN  BREAD 332 

XXVI.  UP  BOAR-BACK 340 

XXVII.  OVER  EAST  SPUR 361 

XXVIII.  SUNDAY 388 

XXIX.   LIFE'S  WORD 399 

XXX.   DRIFTING  APART 415 


Vill  CONTENTS. 

XXXI.  A  BIRTHDAY;  AND  WHAT  IT  BROUGHT          .  422 

XXXII.   THE  SCARLET  OAK 431 

XXXIII.  VIEWS;  ACROSS  AND  BACK     .        .        .        .443 

XXXIV.  OPPOSITE  AGAIN  ;  AT  THE  LESSER  DISTANCE  456 
XXXV.  EBEN'S  DISCOURSE 467 

XXXVI.  MRS.   GAIR  MAKES  UP  HER  MIND  TO  BE  EQUAL 

TO  IT 475 

XXXVII.  TO-MORROW    .        .        .        .•       .        .        .  481 

XXXVIII.   SEEKING 488 

XXXIX.   FINDING 499 

XL.   THRUMS  AGAIN 513 

XLI.   THE  SUNNY  CORNER 524 

XLII.   "  ELECTED  !  " 537 

XLIII.  LAST,  BUT  NOT  FINAL          .       .        .  548 


THE  GAYWORTHYS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

DR.  GAYWOBTHY'S  WOMEN  FOLKS. 

DID  you  ever  eat  strawberry  short-cake  ?  If  not,  I 
am  afraid  I  cannot  put  you  in  the  way  of  that  delight, 
further  than  to  tell  you  that  it  is  a  delicious  mystery 
of  cuisine,  known  among  certain  dwellers  in  certain 
hill  counties  of  New  England,  where  the  glorious  scar 
let  berry  blushes  indigenous  and  profuse  all  over  pas 
ture-slopes  and  mountain-sides  at  the  early  outburst  of 
the  short  and  fervid  summer.  A  mystery,  the  manner 
of  whose  compounding  is  a  grand,  masonic  secret 
among  the  skillful  and  initiated  few;  for  it  is  not 
every  farmer's  wife  or  daughter,  you  must  know,  who 
has  passed  that  high  degree  which  entitles  her  to  call 
her  neighbors  together  for  such  annual  regale  and 
marvel. 

I  can  tell  you  this  only;  that  on  the  June  day 
wherefrom  I  date  this  story,  in  the  great,  snowy-clean, 
pewter-shining  kitchen  of  the  Gayworthys,  solemn 
preparations  were  toward;  that  on  the  broad  dresser 
stood  a  huge  pan,  heaped  high  with  the  glowing  fruit, 
that  made  the  whole  house  redolent  of  rich,  wild  fra 
grance;  that  beside  it,  on  either  hand,  waited,  in 
plentiful  supply,  flour  of  the  whitest  and  cream  of  the 
yellowest;  and  that,  somehow,  by  a  deft  putting  of 
this  and  that  together,  the  mighty  result  was  to  come. 

Huldah  Brown  stood,  bare-armed  and  waiting,  be- 


2  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

fore  the  whole;  'and  looked"  ealculatingly  upon  the 
gathered  material. 

"It's  an  awful  lot,  to  be  sure;  but  then  they'll 
every  soul  of  'em  come,  from  all  p'ints  of  the  compass; 
and  when  they  're  scalt  and  mashed,  they  do  s'rink 
down!" 

Huldah's  utterance  must  stand,  in  all  its  horrible 
ambiguity,  as  to  who  or  what  was  to  be  "scalt  and 
mashed."  I  may  not  venture  to  throw  light  on  one 
point,  lest  I  trespass,  with  unwarranted  illumination, 
upon  another. 

"And  there  's  a  manifest  providence,  comin'  across 
the  chip-yard !  " 

The  "manifest  providence  "  was  a  sharp-nosed,  lit 
tle,  elderly  woman,  in  a  striped  sunbonnet,  with  a 
three-quart  tin  pail  full  of  strawberries,  which  she 
changed  from  one  hand  to  the  other,  wearily,  as  she 
came  up  to  the  open  door.  "Mis'  Vorse!"  cried 
Huldah,  from  the  stair-foot:  "I  b'lieve  my  soul,  we 
hain't  got  berries  enough,  arter  all !  " 

"You  don't  think  it,  Huldah!  "  came  back,  in  a 
sharp,  explosive  consternation. 

"Well,  I  do,  then!  "  returned  Huldah,  "and  here  's 
Widder  Horke  jest  comin'  along  with  a  pailful.  I 
call  that  clear  luck !  " 

"See  what  she  asks  for  'em.  I'll  be  down  in  a 
minute."  Huldah  Brown  knew  very  well  at  which 
end  to  present  a  suggestion.  The  way  to  bring  people 
to  your  own  conclusion  is  to  give  them,  not  your  last 
thought,  but  your  first. 

Huldah  startled  her  mistress  with  the  selfsame 
doubt  that  had  startled  herself,  and  then  brought  for 
ward  the  "manifest  providence." 

Upstairs,  in  the  white  bedroom,  were  gathered  the 
four  ladies  of  the  house;  or,  in  country  parlance,  "all 
Dr.  Gay  worthy's  women  folks,"  —  Mrs.  Reuben  Gair, 


DR.  GAY  WORTHY'S  WOMEN  FOLKS.  3 

Mrs.  Prudence  Vorse,  and  the  two  young,  unmarried 
sisters,  Joanna  and  Rebecca. 

I  mention  first  Mrs.  Reuben  Gair,  because,  though 
she  cannot  claim  the  precedence  of  seniority,  she  holds 
the  stronger  right  of  paramount  importance  among  the 
sisters ;  and  is  at  this  moment  the  centre  and  oracle 
of  their  group,  as  they  stand,  leaning  eager  faces  in 
between  the  white  festoons  of  dimity,  about  the  great, 
old-fashioned,  high-posted  bedstead,  whereon  lie  un 
folded  and  displayed  certain  purchases,  which  the  city 
lady  has  from  time  to  time  been  commissioned  by  let 
ter  and  pattern  to  make,  and  upon  whose  fashion  and 
quality  she  enlarges  with  all  the  eloquence  of  a  perfect 
au-f ait-ism. 

Mrs.  Reuben  Gair  came  up  from  Selport  two  days 
since,  for  her  yearly  summer  visit  in  Hilbury.  And 
so  the  Hilbury  season  has  begun,  and  the  Gayworthys 
are  giving  their  first  summer  party,  and  strawberry 
short-cake  is  the  chief  nominal  attraction;  while  "from 
all  p'ints  of  the  compass  they'll  be  sure  to  come," 
although  there  were  no  short-cake  at  all;  since  Mrs. 
Reuben  will  be  to  be  seen,  in  her  new  bright  green 
silk,  of  the  freshest  Selport  style;  and  every  soul 
(feminine)  will  be  enabled  to  go  home,  having  taken 
mental  measurement  and  specification  thereof,  and 
knowing  precisely  the  number  of  breadths  in  the  skirt, 
and  the  width  of  the  seven  little  "crossway"  ruffles 
that  garnish  it. 

The  Gayworthy  sisters  have  made  an  early  toilet, 
and  the  house  is  in  early  festival  trim,  and  there  has 
been  ample  time  for  the  production  and  discussion  of 
the  long-expected  fineries. 

Mrs.  Vorse,  or  "sister  Prue, "  is  a  woman  of  five 
and  thirty,  who  looks  to  have  taken  life  hard.  She 
made  "no  great  of  a  match  "  some  fifteen  years  ago, 
and  has  come  back  within  the  four  last  past,  to  keep 


4  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

house  for  the  old  doctor,  who  is  her  step-father  only, 
—  her  mother,  his  second  wife,  having  been  a  widow 
with  this  one  child,  — while  her  young  half-sisters 
have  been  away  at  school.  Her  son,  Gershom  Vorse, 
then  a  boy  of  eight,  came  with  her,  and  here  they  still 
abide,  greatly  to  the  comfort  of  the  worthy  doctor, 
whose  household  Prudence  guides  in  the  true  spirit  of 
her  name,  and  to  the  welcome  enfranchisement  of 
Joanna  and  Rebecca;  not  altogether,  either,  to  the 
dissatisfaction  of  Mrs.  Reuben,  notwithstanding  that 
the  sisterhood  between  them  is  one  of  courtesy  and 
association  only,  Mrs.  Gair,  although  the  younger, 
being  the  child  of  the  first  Mrs.  Gayworthy;  and 
thus,  as  she  could  not  help  remembering,  at  times, 
with  a  certain  touch  of  jealous  restlessness  as  con 
nected  with  the  present,  and  an  as  certain,  but  half- 
examined  complacency  as  regarded  the  contingencies  of 
the  future,  "really  no  relation  at  all." 

"A  double  family  of  girls  was  quite  enough,  in  all 
conscience;  and  then,  there  was  Prue's  great  boy!" 
Very  clumsy  and  ill-judged,  to  be  sure,  this  latter  cir 
cumstance,  on  the  part  of  Prue. 

The  world,  as  I  have  intimated,  had  been  hard 
work  for  Prudence  Vorse.  Things  had  not  fallen  in 
comfortably  or  fortunately  for  her,  as  they  do  for 
some.  She  had  had  ten  years  of  trying  at  life  which 
was  not  life.  If  she  wanted  anything,  every  nerve 
was  to  be  strained  to  get  it.  The  people  about  her, 
instead  of  being  helps  to  her  wishes,  were  so  many 
obstacles  for  her  to  overcome.  She  had  always  been 
heading  straight  against  a  stone  wall ;  the  more,  be 
cause  it  had  never  been  in  her  nature  to  take  any  cir 
cuitous  way.  Her  face  had  got  a  hard  directness  and 
determination  in  it,  so.  Her  voice  had  laid  aside  its 
softer  modulations,  and  taken  a  short,  strong,  uncom 
promising  tone.  Her  look,  her  movement,  her  whole 


DR.  GAY  WORTHY'S  WOMEN  FOLKS.  5 

bearing,  had  a  searchingness,  a  promptness,  a  decision, 
almost  aggressive,  in  them. 

Many  a  woman  hardens  or  sharpens,  through  the 
opposing  or  grinding  of  unkindly  circumstance,  who 
else  might  have  been  gentle,  restful,  round  with  grace 
in  soul  and  lineament,  through  nestling  lovingly  among 
loving  influences.  Ah,  well,  God  sees ! 

Mrs.  Gair,  on  the  contrary,  has  been  one  of  those 
for  whom  all  things  smile;  who  have  the  world  on 
their  own  terms;  who  have  always  pleasant  weather 
for  their  pleasant  plans,  and  timely  tempest  to  make 
impossible  that  which  they  may  not  care  to  do.  This, 
at  least,  was  the  look  her  life  wore  to  others;  she 
herself  knew  her  own  unsatisf actions,  as  we  all  do; 
whether  hers  were  noble  or  ignoble  discontents  may 
be  shown  as  we  shall  turn  the  coming  pages. 

There  are  only  five  years  between  her  and  her  step 
sister,  as  they  stand  there  together ;  the  one  in  her 
glistening  summer-bright  robe,  fresh  and  new  as  the 
new  leaves  of  June ;  with  round,  fair  face  unlined  by 
any  perplexity,  and  hair  untouched  of  autumn,  dressed 
fearlessly  in  the  simple  style  of  the  time ;  the  other  in 
her  well-kept  dress  of  not  too  costly  black,  having 
that  air  of  unusedness  which  a  black  silk  dress,  pro 
duced  only  upon  state  occasions,  may  keep  through 
whatever  vicissitudes  of  passing  fashion  and  fading 
gloss,  —  new  always  in  its  owner's  idea,  however  shabby 
it  may  come  to  be  to  eyes  of  others ;  cappy  headdress, 
that,  although  it  is  to  the  regularly  instituted  cap 
what  spring  eyeglasses  are  to  spectacles,  yet  is,  like 
them,  the  beginning  of  an  acknowledgment;  and  the 
face  that  tells  its  ten  years'  story  as  I  have  hinted;  — 
who  could  have  believed  in  but  that  five  years'  differ 
ence? 

Joanna  and  Rebecca  are  young;  wearing  the  look 
that  only  early  girlhood  wears,  — unwritten  of  any 


b  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

past,  expectant  of  all  future  possibilities.  What  need 
to  describe  them?  Round,  laughing,  and  fair, —  the 
one ;  slight,  brown,  delicate,  serious-eyed,  —  the  other  •, 
that  is  all.  The  years  of  their  lives  —  perhaps  the 
pages  of  this  story  —  shall  develop  or  contradict  what 
ever  prophecy  you  may  read  in  two  such  faces. 

Meanwhile,  this  sketch  of  the  four  is  but  a  da 
guerreotype,  flashed  in  an  instant,  —  the  instant 
wherein  Widow  Horke  still  pauses  upon  the  door-stone, 
and  busy  Huldah  Brown,  who,  you  may  be  certain, 
will  not  wait  there  long,  yet  lingers  at  the  stair-foot. 

And  sister  Prue  smooths  her  new  cap  that  has  been 
brushed  a  little  awry  by  the  cotton  fringes  of  the  bed- 
hangings,  and  hastens  downstairs  with  a  great  white 
apron  tied  on  over  the  best  black  silk,  and  sleeves 
turned  up,  to  superintend  the  strawberry  short-cake; 
and  Mrs.  Reuben  Gair,  craving  help  of  her  two  young 
sisters,  lays  shawls  and  muslins  and  ribbons  and  pat 
terns  carefully  back  into  the  great  traveling  trunk; 
which  being  locked,  she  plunges  into  the  far  recesses 
of  the  dark,  narrow  closet  that  runs  back  between  the 
chambers  their  full  length,  lest  half  Hilbury  may  get 
accidental  glimpse  or  confidentially  crave  full  sight  of 
these  new  summer  things  that  have  come  from  Selport. 

"You're  tired,  I  guess?"  says  Huldah  Brown  to 
the  widow,  as  Mrs.  Vorse  comes  down  the  stairs. 

"Tired!"  answers  Widow  Horke  emphatically. 
"I  'm  all  gone!  I  don't  know  where." 

"Walk  in  and  sit  down,"  says  the  quick,  smart 
voice  of  Prudence  Vorse,  "while  Huldah  measures  the 
berries.  Three  quarts?  I  don't  want  more 'n  two. 
They  'd  be  clear  wasted.  I  guess  Mrs.  Hartshorne  '11 
take  the  other.  Ten  cents!  I  haven't  paid  but  six 
this  week  past." 

So  speaking,  Mrs.  Vorse  led  the  way,  pail  in  hand, 
across  the  kitchen  toward  the  dresser,  by  the  end  of 


DR.  GAYWORTHY'S  WOMEN  FOLKS.  1 

which,  with  a  voluminous   sigh,    Widow  Horke  sunk 
into  a  seat. 

"They're  wuth  that  to  me,"  pleaded  the  latter, 
with  a  low  whine,  the  diminuendo  of  her  sigh. 

Mrs.  Vorse  turned  short  round,  and  pushed  the  pail 
toward  her  across  the  corner  of  the  board. 

"Very  well,  then,"  was  the  prompt  decision,  "the 
best  thing  you  can  do  is  just  to  take  'em  right  home 
and  eat  'em.  They  won't  be  so  valuable  to  anybody 
else,  at  that  rate." 

Mrs.  Horke  laughed  faintly,  as  literally  at  her  own 
expense. 

"You're  allers  jest  so  queer,"  she  said.  "Well, 
seein'  it 's  you,  I  s'pose  I  must  let  you  have  'em." 

"Just  as  you  like.  Six  cents  is  a  fair  price." 
And  Mrs.  Vorse  went  over  into  the  pantry,  where  she 
kept  odd  change  in  a  blue  mug,  and  brought  back, 
presently,  the  twelve  cents,  and  something  beside, 
wrapped  in  a  brown  paper. 

"That'll  help  out  your  supper,"  said  she,  never 
wnding  that  the  plum  cake  was  worth  five  times  the 
difference  in  the  disputed  price  of  the  strawberries. 
Mrs.  Vorse  was  not  stingy.  But  she  had  certain  rules 
which  she  never  let  herself  off  from.  She  might  give 
away,  but  she  never  would  pay  an  exorbitant  price. 
She  had  an  uncompromising  sense  of  justice  which 
.Mrried  itself  out  into  the  least  details. 

"Sarah  Gair!  "  she  cried  sharply,  as  a  child  of 
seven,  sashed,  pantaletted,  and  bronze-booted,  running 
in  before  Mrs.  Reuben,  and  across  to  the  tempting 
dresser,  straightway  "  thrust  in  a  thumb  and  pulled  out 
a  plum  "  from  Widow  Horke 's  tin  pail,  —  "if  you 
want  strawberries,  take  'em  out  of  the  pudding-dish! 
They're  paid  for,  and  those  ain't!  "  and  she  deliber 
ately  put  a  berry  from  said  pudding-dish  back  into  the 
pail. 


8  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

"Lord-a-massy !  "  ejaculated  the  widow,  laughing 
genuinely  this  time,  with  a  double  tickle  of  Mrs. 
Prue's  oddity  and  the  aroma  of  plum  cake,  "if  any 
body  ever  heerd  the  like !  You  do  hev  the  singl'rest 
notions,  Mis'  Vorse." 

"So  it  seems  to  me,"  remarked  Mrs.  Reuben  Gair, 
as  the  strawberry  picker  took  up  her  pail  and  departed 
across  the  chip-yard.  "And  they  don't  appear  always 
to  be  quite  consistent;  didn't  I  hear  you  beating  the 
poor  woman  down  in  her  price  a  minute  ago  ?  " 

"That's  just  where  the  consistency  is,"  retorted 
her  step-sister.  "Right 's  right,  either  way.  She 
may  be  poor,"  continued  Mrs.  Prudence,  "and  she 
may  be  a  widow  woman ;  and  she  may  be  rheumatic, 
winters ;  and  she  may  live  all  alone  down  there  by 
Gibson's  clearing;  but  that  ain't  any  reason  why  she 
should  put  it  all  on  to  the  price  of  a  mess  of  strawber 
ries.  When  I  give,  I  give ;  and  when  I  buy,  I  buy. 
Sarah  Gair !  "  she  cried  again,  suddenly,  to  the  small, 
starched,  ribboned,  and  beruffled  creature,  who  by 
this  time  was  peeping  in  furtively  at  the  pantry  door, 
within  which,  on  the  ample  shelves,  stood  the  whole 
bountiful  variety  and  array  of  country  delicacies  that 
were  to  sustain  the  ancient  honor  of  the  Gayworthy 
table,  "don't  you  make  up  your  mind  to  sponge  cake 
from  the  beginning,  this  time,  and  eat  five  pieces,  as 
you  did  at  the  Fairbrothers' !  " 

The  child  drooped  down  from  head  to  foot,  from  her 
glad,  eager  attitude,  in  a  moment ;  and  a  shame  that 
only  rebuked  childhood  knows,  dreaming  of  naught 
more  shameful  than  the  present  fault  whereof  it  stands 
convicted,  rushed  over  her,  hot  and  scarlet. 

"Mrs.  Fairbrother  asked  me,"  she  murmured 
faintly,  "and  ma  won't  let  me  eat  plum  cake." 

"If  Mrs.  Fairbrother  asked  you  five  times,  three 
times  you  should  have  said,  'No,  I  thank  you.'  ' 


DR.  GAY  WORTHY'S  WOMEN  FOLKS.  9 

"But,"  persisted  the  culprit  more  confidently,  now 
feeling  suddenly  to  have  the  great  Angel,  Truth,  upon 
her  side,  "  she  asked  me  if  I  wanted  some  more ;  and 
I  did!" 

Aunt  Prue  was  silent. 

"  You  should  have  said  l  No,  I  thank  you, '  all  the 
same,"  admonished  the  mother.  "It  wasn't  polite." 

"Polite!  "  cried  Aunt  Prue,  aside.  "Better  tell  her 
not  to  be  greedy." 

"And  what  do  you  suppose  all  those  people  think  of 
you  now  ?  " 

Mrs.  Gair  flung  this  last  shaft,  —  a  great  battle-axe 
of  world's  opinion  against  a  mere  gnat  of  transgression, 
—  and  then  the  two  grown  women  forgot  the  whole 
matter  in  five  minutes,  and  the  child  crept  out,  and 
sat  upon  the  door-stone,  and  felt  her  small  pride 
crushed,  and  her  character  stained  forever. 

The  strawberry  party,  at  least  it  seemed  so  at  this 
moment,  was  all  spoiled  now. 

So*  in  our  clumsy  recklessness,  we  deal  with  souls ! 

Only,  the  dock  always  grows  beside  the  nettle.  It 
is  God  who  takes  care  of  that.  Aunt  Rebecca,  in  her 
white  dress,  with  her  pure,  gentle  young  face,  came 
out  to  the  door-stone  and  stood  behind  Sarah. 

The  pleasant  south  wind  was  blowing  through  the 
great  maples  that  stood  in  a  row  between  the  road  and 
the  chip-yard ;  the  scent  of  early  roses  came  up  from 
the  low  flower-garden,  to  which  a  white*  gate  and  a 
few  rough  stone  steps  led  in  and  down  straight  opposite 
the  door.  Farther  on,  beside  the  drive  that  wound 
with  sudden  slope  around  the  garden  to  the  right, 
toward  the  great  barns,  stood  the  long  trough,  hewn 
from  a  tree-trunk,  and  holding  clear,  cool  water  that 
flowed  incessantly  into  it,  through  a  wooden  duct  of 
halved  and  hollowed  saplings,  leading  from  a  spring 
in  the  hillside  away  up  behind  the  house.  Here  a 


10  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

yoke  of  tired  cattle  were  drinking,  —  the  ploughboy 
standing  patiently  beside;  close  by  the  great  creatures' 
heads,  upon  the  trough-rim,  perched  fearless  chickens, 
dipping  their  yellow  bills  ;  and  underneath  and  around, 
in  the  merry,  unfailing  puddles,  splashed  and  quacked 
the  ducks.  The  bright  June  sun,  genial,  not  scorch 
ing,  hung  in  the  afternoon  sky.  There  were  birds  in 
the  maple-trees,  and  the  very  grass  about  the  door- 
stone  was  full  of  happy  life.  Out  upon  all,  through 
troubled  eyes,  looked  a  little,  tender  human  soul  that 
had  felt  a  pain. 

"What  is  it,  Say?" 

Say  turned  round  at  the  gentle  voice,  and  nestled 
her  face  against  the  folds  of  the  white  dress. 

"I  ate  all  sponge  cake  for  my  supper  a.t  Mrs.  Fair- 
brother's,"  she  murmured,  like  a  penitent  at  confes 
sional  whispering  into  priestly  ears  the  avowal  of  a 


"And  that  was  "  —  said  Aunt  Rebecca. 

"Greedy.  Horrid."  So  far  she  spoke  from  sentence 
of  others,  out  of  her  shame  ;  and  then  something  in 
herself  rebelled  at  her  own  words,  and  she  added,  with 
sudden  defiance,  —  "But  I  don't  see  why.  There  was 
plenty  of  it.  And  they  asked  me." 

"Plenty  for  you,  dear.  But  if  everybody  else  had 
wanted  all  sponge  cake  ?  " 

Sarah  saw  the  selfishness  then,  and  there  was  no 
answer  for  her  to  make.  She  dropped  wretchedly 
back  into  her  self-contempt  again. 

"I  wish,"  said  the  child  impulsively,  "that  I  was 
a  chicken.  Only  a  little,  yellow,  peeping  chicken. 
Like  those  down  there." 

"Like  that  one,  running  away  to  hide  under  the 
^ence,  with  a  barleycorn  in  his  mouth  ?  " 

"Oh  dear!  "  This  soul  that  had  been  born  into 
the  world,  and  had  had  its  tiny  experience  of  the  evil, 


DE.  GAY  WORTHY1  S  WOMEN  FOLKS.  1\ 

might  chafe  in  vain.  She  could  see  nowhere  her  es 
cape,  not  even  into  chickenhood,  had  that  been  possible. 

"Not  that  way,"  said  Rebecca,  more  to  her  own 
thought  than  remembering  the  child.  "Only  toward 
God." 

"We  must  ask,  Say,  to  have  the  selfishness  taken 
from  us.  And  we  must  try  to  give  up.  We  can't 
turn  into  chickens,  even  if  that  would  do.  But  we  can 
grow  —  to  be  angels.  This  one  little  fault  may  make 
you  better  all  your  life.  And, "  she  added  with  a  deli 
cate  heart-instinct,  "nobody  will  ever  remember  it!  " 

Say's  face  changed.  She  had  passed  through,  in 
these  few  moments,  —  sensitive  children  do,  in  a  strange 
undreamed-of  way,  in  these  their  little  experiences,  — 
an  epitome  of  the  grand,  spiritual  experience  of  human 
life,  and  of  the  world.  All  things  great  are  in  all 
things  little.  Law  comes  with  its  rebuke,  its  fruit 
less  shame  for  what  is  past ;  Gospel  with  its  word  of 
mercy  for  what  has  been,  its  hope  for  better  things  to 
be.  Aunt  Prue  was  condemnation.  Aunt  Rebecca 
was  redemption.  The  child  loved  the  saintly  young 
girl,  at  that  moment,  as  men  love  their  Redeemer. 

She  might  overlive  it,  then;  even  this  terrible  mis 
demeanor  of  the  sponge  cake.  "Nobody  would  re 
member  it."  The  words  were  a  balm  like  that  which 
comes  to  us  grown  sinners  with  God's  words,  —  "I 
have  blotted  out  thy  transgressions;  I  will  not  re 
member  thy  sins." 

Say  slid  her  little  hand  into  Aunt  Rebecca's.  "Let 
me  stay  by  you  at  tea-time,"  she  whispered.  "Why, 
Auntie !  "  she  cried  suddenly,  with  altered  tone,  as 
for  the  first  time  she  lifted  her  eyes  fully  to  the  kind 
face  that  looked  down  upon  her.  "You  had  your  hair 
in  those  pretty  puffs.  Where  are  they  ?  " 

"I  brushed  them  back  again,"  said  Aunt  Rebecca 
quietly. 


12  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

This  young  girl  of  nineteen  had  renounced  her  van 
ity  so.  She  had  seen  in  her  glass  that  her  face  was 
very  pretty,  set  in  its  glossy  frame  of  smoothly  banded 
locks;  and,  lest  she  should  remember  it  to  her  spirit 
ual  hurt,  —  lest  she  should  so,  thinking  of  self,  forget 
her  Lord,  —  she  had  put  them  back,  and  chosen  to 
wear  only  her  usual  and  unnoted  look  to-day. 

Moreover,  the  Reverend  Gordon  King  was  to  be  of 
the  strawberry  party. 

I  do  not  say  that  puffs  are  sinful.  I  do  not  say  that 
God  forbids  a  simple  joy  in  the  beauty  that  He  gives. 
I  only  tell  you  what  this  young  creature,  true  to  her 
own  conception  of  duty,  did. 

Rebecca  Gayworthy  was  growing  into  the  character 
that  primitive  New  England  influences,  and  almost 
these  alone,  develop  from  certain  natures.  Out  of 
these  by-places  where  the  Puritan  air  still  lingers, 
out  of  these  Bethlehems,  slow  of  growth,  perhaps,  but 
the  less  tainted,  come  souls  that  rule,  —  that  walk 
sternly  over  self,  that  choose  the  thorns,  that  take  up 
their  cross  daily,  giving  up  their  own  work  to  do  that 
of  the  Lord  Christ.  Taught  from  infancy  that  no 
church  or  outside  ark  is  to  save  them;  that  no  ca- 
balism  of  words  said  over  them  is  to  bring  them  neces 
sarily  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven ;  admonished  of  the 
spiritual  birth,  —  warned  of  the  spiritual  death ;  set 
searching,  each  soul  for  itself,  what  this  birth  may 
mean,  —  how  salvation  from  this  death  be  won ;  the 
thoughtful,  earnest  spirit  wrestles  and  reaches  till  it 
lays  hold  of  sainthood. 

A  fugue  of  voices  from  within  called  Rebecca  at 
this  moment.  Flour  and  cream  and  fruit  had  been 
carried  away.  The  hour  had  come  for  laying  the  long 
table  in  the  great  front  kitchen,  the  only  room  in  the 
farmhouse  which  might  afford  space  for  the  expected 
guests  at  a  real  comfortable,  sit-down  tea-drinking, 


DE.  GAY  WORTHY1  S  WOMEN  FOLKS.  13 

at  which  alone  might  strawberry  short-cake  be  fittingly 
enjoyed.  At  other  times,  the  Gayworthy  ladies 
knew  well  how  to  order  and  preside  over  the  stateli- 
ness  of  the  formal  "handing-round"  in  the  best  parlor. 
To-night  was  high  festival,  where  mere  gentility  took 
second  place. 

The  wide  fireplace  was  garnished  with  greenery, 
and  the  flames  that  ordinarily  poured  upward  through 
its  capacious  outlet  were  kindling  unwontedly  in  the 
out-room,  where  Huldah  Brown  was  already  mixing 
and  rolling,  and  would  shortly  be  "  scalding  and  mash 
ing,  "  —  high  priestess  of  the  mighty  mystery  that  she 
was.  The  dresser  held  now  the  wide  tray  laden  with 
rare  old  china  cups  and  saucers  and  plates;  teapots 
of  the  same,  tall,  slender,  quaint,  long-spouted,  high- 
handled;  little  pitchers  with  the  "long  ears,"  that 
shall  forever  be  memorialized  while  little  human  re 
ceptacles  with  the  like  appendages  continue  to  be ;  all 
these,  and  many  of  them ;  for  in  the  days  and  regions 
of  notable  personal  housewifery,  and  neat-handed  Hul- 
dahs  helping,  grandmother's  treasures  of  porcelain 
gathered  and  came  down,  with  neither  nick  nor  break 
age,  to  second  and  third  generations.  Alas,  for  the 
days  that  have  been,  and  shall  be  no  more  forever! 

The  monstrous  linen-chest,  that  stood  in  the  great 
"kitchen  chamber "  overhead,  had  delivered  up  its 
most  voluminous  naperies  to  shroud  the  extended  board 
whose  construction  for  the  occasion,  since  no  guests 
shall  have  need  to  spy,  we,  neither,  need  pry  into  nor 
explain.  There  was  a  sweet,  nameless,  delicate  fra 
grance  in  the  air,  as  the  pure  white  folds  were  shaken 
out,  such  as  is  breathed  only  from  old  presses,  and 
quaint  bureaus,  and  great  chests  like  this  that  had 
held  these,  wherein  women  of  the  olden  time,  who  set 
store  by  their  fair  linens  and  delicate  laces,  and 
silken  heirlooms  of  taffeta  and  brocade,  kept  daintily, 


14  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

with  bits  of  musk  and  sprigs  of  lavender,  such  wealth 
of  house  and  wardrobe. 

Rebecca  was  summoned  to  assist  in  the  spreading 
and  placing.  An  hour  hence,  and  the  early  country 
party  would  have  assembled. 

Sarah  Gair  stayed  outside,  waiting  to  see  what  Ger- 
shom  Vorse,  coming  up  toward  her  from  the  orchard 
gate,  with  one  of  the  farm  men,  might  be  going  to  do. 

"Eben  is  going  to  feed  the  pigs  now,  Say!  Come 
out  into  the  shed-chamber,  and  we  '11  call  'em  in!  " 

Say  sprang  down  from  the  door-stone  at  that,  ea 
gerly;  and  skipped,  in  a  dainty  way,  turning  out  the 
toes  of  her  new  bronze  boots,  over  the  bit  of  grass-plot 
that  lay  between  her  and  the  wide-open  doors  of  the 
great  woodshed. 

Gershom  came  up,  with  a  certain  contempt  in  the 
tread  of  his  stout  country  shoes. 

"I  forgot  you  were  all  dressed  up,  and  toes  in  posi 
tion,  "  said  he. 

Say  had  before  this  offered  to  teach  him  the  small 
beginnings  that  she  herself  had  made  in  the  sublime 
art  which  includes  "Deportment." 

"That  isn't  a  bit  of  matter,"  returned  the  straight 
forward  little  lady,  not  accepting  the  sarcasm,  and 
picking  her  way  among  the  scattered  chips  and  litter 
along  the  shed,  with  a  continued,  conscious  pleasure 
—  the  pleasure  of  using  pretty  things  —  in  each  sepa 
rate  planting  of  the  trim,  golden-gleaming  little  feet. 
"It  's  as  nice  out  in  my  play-parlor  as  it  is  in  Aunt 
Prue's  best  room.  Besides,  my  dollies  want  to  see 
me,  by  this  time." 

The  shed-chamber  was  a  clean,  floored  room,  rough- 
beamed  and  small-windowed,  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
building.  One  window  opened  on  the  yard,  toward 
the  house,  and  the  other  overlooked  the  pig-pen,  and 
pleasanter  things  beyond.  Through  the  middle  of  the 


DE.  GAY  WORTHY'S  WOMEN  FOLKS.  15 

floor  came  up  two  square,   box-like  constructions,  — 
open  conduits  to  the  troughs  beneath. 

And  this  "play-parlor,"  as  Say  called  it,  was  a 
really  pleasant  place.  To  a  child,  a  bit  of  Paradise, 
roughly  boarded  in.  Here,  in  any  weather,  Say  could 
come,  and  amuse  herself  with  her  grand  china-closet  of 
broken  bits,  —  luckily  for  the  children,  common  ware 
did  get  fractured  now  and  then,'  —  ranged  along  the 
ledges  in  one  corner;  decorate  the  brown,  unplaned 
walls  with  boughs  of  green  and  wild  flowers  or  gay, 
coarse  garden-blossoms  that  she  had  "leave  to  pick;  " 
admonish  and  discipline,  dress  and  array,  her  indefi 
nite  family  of  corn-cob  children,  and  above  all,  when 
everything  else  sated,  stand  at  the  "pig-pen  "  window, 
and  look  out  over  the  green  meadow  stretching  toward 
the  bit  of  oak  woods  that  skirted  the  opposite  bound 
ary  of  the  wet  land  with  its  green  mystery,  which  no 
body  but  the  pigs  ever  penetrated,  and  whither  these 
happy  animals  daily  betook  themselves  through  a  little 
wicket-gate  left  open  from  their  board  and  lodging 
place.  The  call  from  this  window,  in  a  high,  pe 
culiar  monotone,  "pig-pig-pig-pig-pig,"  would  bring 
first  one,  then  another,  and  at  last  the  whole  drove, 
peeping  out  from  the  oak-grove,  and  scampering  across 
the  meadow  to  their  roomy  and  not  unclean  quarters 
within  the  wicket ;  where,  at  suitable  intervals,  buck- 
etfuls,  not  of  common  refuse,  but  of  what  to  swinish 
appreciation  must  have  seemed  the  most  sumptuous 
white  soup,  —  a  boiling  of  vegetables  added  to  the 
surplus  of  the  dairy,  —  rich  buttermilk,  or  sweet 
whey,  or  plentiful  skimmed  milk,  better  than  humans 
in  the  cities  pay  for,  — were  poured,  a  luscious  flood, 
down  the  square  conduits  above  mentioned.  I  think 
pigs  were  never  so  happy,  so  well  lodged,  so  bounti 
fully  and  delicately  fed,  as  these  of  Grandpapa  Gay- 
worthy  !  What  with  the  liberty  abroad,  and  the  dain 
ties  at  home,  it  was  the  very  poetry  of  pork. 


16  THE  GAY  WORTHY S. 

At  any  rate,  Sarah  Gair  was  hardly  ever  more  happy 
than  in  luring  them  out  from  their  green,  shady  covert, 
where  the  sweet  acorns  grew,  and  watching  their  eager 
ness  as  they  scrambled  along  the  meadow-path,  and 
into  their  dining-parlor,  and  tumbled  up  confusedly 
about  the  troughs ;  lifting  their  small,  keen  eyes,  like 
many  a  creature  of  higher  organization,  with  a  very 
assured  expectancy  of  good  gifts  due,  according  to 
precedent,  from  above. 

"Eben — ezer!  "  cried  Say,  from  the  window,  as 
the  man  entered  the  chamber  behind  them,  and  set  his 
pail  beside  the  great  wooden  spouts.  "The  gate  's 
blown  to!  The  pigs  can't  get  in!  Make  haste, — 
there  's  grandpa  driving  down  the  yard!  " 

"An'  I  guess  he  '11  want  his  horse  took  out,  afore 
I  come  back  again.  So  you  an'  the  pigs  can  wait. 
It'll  be  some  time,  too,  I  shouldn't  wonder.  You 
can't  expect  a  man  that  carries  a  name  as  long  as 
that  to  stir  round  quite  so  spry  as  a  Jack-be-nimble !  " 

Eben  had  so  his  sly  revenge  for  Say's  mischievous 
giving  of  the  whole  title,  which,  it  was  well  known  in 
the  household,  he  very  decidedly  disliked.  He  left 
the  pails  as  they  were,  beside  the  spouts,  and  went 
down  to  the  yard  below.  As  he  set  the  wicket  back, 
Dr.  Gayworthy  really  did  call  to  him.  Meanwhile 
the  children  at  the  window  called  the  pigs. 

"How  funny  they  look,"  said  Say,  "with  their 
great  ears  flapping,  and  their  queer,  flat  noses  going, 
so !  "  and  she  turned  her  lips,  very  drolly,  inside  out 
and  up  and  down  against  nose  and  chin,  and  tried  to 
work  them,  pig  fashion. 

"  There  they  come,  tumbling  and  grunting, "  as  the 
creatures  crossed  their  outer  court  and  disappeared 
beneath  the  building.  "And  now,  I  wish  Eb  would 
come." 

To  pass  away  the  time,  Say  skipped  down  from  the 


DK.  GAY  WORTHY'S  WOMEN  FOLKS.  17 

block  of  timber  upon  which  she  stood  at  the  window, 
and,  executing  certain  imperfectly  learned  "dancing 
steps, "  fell  to.  admiring  her  new  boots  again,  —  chat 
ting  on,  all  the  while,  to  Gershom. 

"Did  you  know  we  're  going  to  have  a  little  table, 
you  and  I,  and  take  tea  at  the  same  time  with  the 
company  ?  " 

"I  hate  company,"  answered  Gershom  gruffly. 
"People  stuck  round^,  mincing  at  little  bits,  and  say 
ing,  l  No,  I  thank  you, '  with  their  mouths  puckered 
up,  when  they  want  it  all  the  time !  I  hate  company, 
and  I  hate  company  manners!  'Ma-1-vi-ny!  '  "  he 
drawled,  in  a  high,  plaintive  pitch  of  voice,  "'take 

—  your  fingers  —  out  —  of  the  su-gar  bowl!      Do-n't 

—  touch  —  the  pie  —  until  —  it 's  cut !  '    That 's  Mrs. 
Fairbrother.     And  then  she  gives  her  a  lump  of  sugar, 
and  a  big  piece  of  cake  to  eat  in  a  corner,  so  as  to 
make  her  behave.     P — ff !  " 

"But  then,"  put  in  little  Say  quite  seriously, 
"people  must  behave,  you  know.  We  shouldn't  like 
to  act  like  the  pigs  down  there, "  as  a  fierce,  impatient 
scramble  and  squealing  was  heard  from  about  the 
empty  troughs. 

"I  don't  know,"  returned  Gershom  a  little  less 
gruffly,  but  with  a  tone  of  cavil,  still.  "It 's  wrong, 
somehow.  It  ain't  real.  If  they  'd  like  to  be  like 
the  pigs,  they  'd  better  do  it." 

"I'm  sure  /  shouldn't  like  to  be  like  the  pigs," 
said  Say,  practicing  a  waltz  step  pretty  successfully. 
"I  like  to  be  nice!" 

"Oh,  yes,"  returned  Gershom,  with  a  small  sneer. 
"You  like  to  wear  new  brown  boots,  and  be  fine,  I 
dare  say.  But  that  ain't  it." 

"Gershom!      You  're  cross!  " 

"No,  I  ain't.  But  you  're  proud.  You  're  think 
ing  all  the  time  of  your  boots.  You  're  thinking 


18  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

there  is  n't  another  pair  in  all  Hilbury  like  'em. 
What  if  there  isn't?  That  don't  make  you  any  bet 
ter  than  the  rest.  You  've  got  nothing  but  bare  feet, 
like  everybody's  else,  inside  'em,  after  all!  " 

"Gershom!  You're  real  ugly.  I  don't  care  for 
my  boots !  " 

"Poh!  That's  likely!  Don't  you  pick  round, 
like  a  cat,  for  fear  you  should  wet  'em  or  scratch 
'em  ?  "  And  Gershom  turned  away,  in  utter  disdain. 

"I  'd  just  as  lief  spoil  'em  as  not!      See  here!  " 

Gershom  turned  his  head  again,  at  the  passionate 
tone  and  a  sudden  splash;  and  Eben  reentered  the 
shed-chamber  at  the  same  moment.  The  two  saw 
something  astonishing.  A  small  figure,  dilated  with 
an  angry,  desperate  triumph,  holding  itself  haughtily, 
erect,  motionless,  in  a  pig's  pail! 

Gershom 's  scorn  was  the  one  thing  Say  could  not 
bear.  Woman-like,  she  vindicated  herself,  impetuously 
and  recklessly,  from  one  suspicion,  by  rushing,  ab 
surdly,  into  an  opposite  excess.  She  had  her  reward, 
as  women  have. 

"I  don't  see  how  that  mends  the  matter,"  was  the 
cool,  slighting  comment  of  the  boy. 

"You  can't  say  any  more  about  my  boots,  any 
how  !  "  And  standing  there  still  in  her  ridiculous  at 
titude,  from  which  even  the  dignity  of  a  righteous 
resentment  now  fell  away,  she  burst  into  a  passion  of 
impotent  tears. 

Eben  lifted  her  quietly  by  the  shoulders,  and  set 
her,  dripping,  upon  the  floor.  "Well,  I  vum!  "  said 
he,  "that 's  spunky.  If  ever  I  see  the  like  o'  that 
afore,  my  name  ain't  Eben — ezer!  " 

Say  stood  sobbing,  conscious  of  ignominious  failure; 
remembering,  with  a  rush,  all  that  lay  before  her  now, 
—  the  getting  into  the  house  again, — her  mother's 
and  aunt's  displeasure,  — all  that  was  utterly  impos- 


DE.  GAYWORTHY'S  WOMEN  FOLKS.  19 

sible  and  horrible  to  do  and  to  bear.  She  stood  there 
in  a  shame,  and  fear,  and  agony;  and  in  a  great 
pause,  that  seemed  like  the  end  of  all  things.  The 
next  that  life  had  for  her  might  come ;  she  could  not 
move  to  meet  it. 

Then  Gershom  changed  his  mood.  Conceit  and 
vanity  and  self-satisfaction,  —  the  shams  of  society 
patent  to  his  early  experience,  —  these  he  could  battle 
with  and  put  down.  These,  boy  as  he  was,  he  had 
no  mercy  for.  But  humiliation  and  helplessness  and 
tears,  —  these,  the  man- chivalry  aroused  in  him  to 
pity  and  to  help. 

He  came  near  and  drew  Say  gently  by  the  arm. 
"Come,"  said  he;  "never  mind!  Sit  down  here  on 
the  block."  Say  let  herself  be  put  there,  passively. 

Gershom  unfastened  and  drew  off  the  soaked  boots 
and  stockings,  and  then  brought  a  dipperful  of  water 
from  the  well,  which  he  poured  over  the  white  little 
feet  and  ankles,  and  the  unhappy  pantalets.  "Now," 
said  he,  "don't  cry;  but  come  up  the  back  stairs  with 
me.  There  's  nobody  but  Huldah  in  the  out-room. 
And  you  and  I  '11  have  our  supper  in  the  kitchen- 
chamber." 

There  was  nobody  like  Gershom  for  tormenting  or 
consoling. 

This  childish  scene  betrayed  something,  on  each 
side,  of  character,  and  foreshadowed  much  of  what 
was  yet  to  be. 


CHAPTER  II. 

DOWN    AMONG    THE    COMPANY. 

"FROM  all  points  of  the  compass  "  they  began  to 
arrive.  Not  that  this  implies  necessarily  any  mighty 
concourse ;  there  was  no  other  way  for  a  gathering  to 
be  made  in  Hilbury.  It  was  one  of  those  great,  thinly 
populated  townships  that  lie  about  among  the  hills  in 
certain  New  England  regions,  which  have  a  small  set 
tlement  —  sometimes  that  only  of  a  single  family,  with 
its  branches  —  in  each  corner,  and  a  meeting-house  in 
the  middle.  There  were,  in  Hilbury,  the  separate 
villages  of  the  Centre,  the  Bridge,  Lawton's  and  Gib 
son's  Corners,  and  Gair's  Hill.  So,  from  all  these 
they  came,  —  from  up  the  road  and  down  the  road,  — 
and,  driving  across  the  chip-yard,  tied  their  horses  to 
the  garden  fence. 

Dr.  Gay  worthy's  house  stood,  if  mathematics  admit 
of  such  an  expression,  in  the  edge  of  the  Centre.  It 
was  a  fair,  prosperous-looking  building,  kept  fresh 
with  seasonable  paintings,  of  a  mellow,  sunny,  smiling 
straw-color ;  the  color  in  the  country  most  indicative 
of  well-to-do-ing.  It  had  an  air  somehow,  among  the 
neighboring  dwellings  of  dusky  red,  as  of  a  dainty  lady 
in  primrose  silk  among  rustics  wearing  common  scarlet 
cotton  print. 

The  children  —  Gershom  and  Say  —  watched  the 
arrival  of  the  company  from  the  "clothes-room  "  win 
dow,  —  the  clothes-room  being  a  large,  light  closet,  off 
the  southwest  end  of  the  great  kitchen-chamber. 

Say's  spirits  were  reacting  merrily  from  her  terror 
and  disgrace.  Mrs.  Reuben,  intent  at  the  moment 


DOWN  AMONG  THE  COMPANY.  21 

upon  the  placing  of  the  iced  plum  cakes,  had  but  half 
comprehended  the  catastrophe  which  Gershom  tried  to 
convey  to  her  knowledge,  taking  to  himself  as  large  a 
share  of  the  blame  as  might  be. 

"I  '11  warrant  it !  "  was  her  exclamation.  "If  there  's 
a  mischief  to  be  got  into,  she  '11  be  sure  to  find  it!" 

"She  's  very  sorry  about  it,  Aunt  Jane.  You  won't 
scold  her,  will  you  ?  " 

Something  in  this  appeal,  whatever  it  may  have  been, 
of  word  or  manner,  seemed  to  give  "  Aunt  Jane  "  more 
annoyance  than  all  the  previous  recital.  She  motioned 
—  I  might  say,  if  it  were  elegant,  elbowed  —  him  off, 
with  the  arm  against  which,  in  his  eagerness  to  follow 
her  along  the  table,  he  pressed  a  little,  to  the  damage 
of  the  new  French  embroidered  cape,  with  its  innu 
merable  delicate  lace  finishings  and  frills,  the  like  of 
which  had  never  before  been  seen  in  Hilbury.  The 
gesture  was  more  pettish  than  it  was  like  her  usual  self 
to  be ;  for  Mrs.  Reuben  Gair  rarely  allowed  herself  to 
be  "put  about,"  as  the  common  saying  is;  she  had 
a  way  of  smoothly  steering  along  toward  her  ends, 
whether  great  or  small,  without  ever  jostling  against 
anything  or  anybody. 

"There,  go  away,"  she  returned  hastily.  "I've 
no  time,  now,  for  scolding,  or  anything  else.  If  you  've 
got  her  into  a  mess,  you  '11  have  to  take  care  of  her 
and  keep  her  out  of  the  way. " 

Gershom  skipped  up  the  out-room  stairs,  well  pleased 
at  gaining  even  this  much. 

"The  worst 's  over,  Say,"  he  said.  "She  knows. 
And  she  was  n't  so  terrible  angry,  after  all.  She 
seemed  more  put  out  about  my  tumbling  her  new-fash 
ioned  vandyke,  or  whatever  you  call  it,  than  anything 
else." 

So  Say  was  in  spirits  again ;  and  sat,  like  a  bare 
footed  princess,  upon  the  divan  of  blankets  and  "com- 


22  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

fortables  "  that  lay  piled  below  the  clothes-room  win 
dow,  and  watched  the  gay  arrivals ;  and  Gershom,  by 
and  by,  when  the  strawberry  feasting  began  below,  ran 
up  and  down  the  out-room  staircase,  receiving  from 
friendly  Huldah  Brown  nice  bits  of  what  he  and  Say 
liked  best ;  and  Say  thought  nothing  in  the  world  worth 
wishing  for  any  longer,  since  Gershie  was  so  good- 
natured. 

"I  told  you  I  did  n't  care  about  my  boots,"  she 
cried.  "I  'd  rather  be  here  than  down  among  the 
company,  a  great  deal !  " 

Down  among  the  company,  however  it  might  be  as 
to  bodily  wants,  there  was  perhaps  many  a  heart-hun 
ger  less  abundantly  ministered  to  than  little  Sarah 
Gair's. 

Stacy  Lawton  felt  no  scruple  about  wearing  her  hair 
in  the  new  puffs.  She  had  thought  of  little  else  since 
Mrs.  Reuben  Gair  appeared  in  them  at  Mrs.  Fairbro- 
ther's  sewing-circle. 

She,  as  well  as  Rebecca  Gayworthy,  had  heard  the 
young  minister,  Gordon  King,  preach  his  two  sermons 
last  Sunday,  the  one  upon  "seeking  first  the  kingdom 
of  God  and  his  righteousness;"  after  which,  Stacy, 
with  a  party  of  other  young  girls,  had  adjourned  to 
spend  the  "noontime "  with  a  friend  close  by  the 
meeting-house,  in  eating  cold  pie,  cake,  and  cheese, 
and  in  low-toned  discussion  among  themselves  as  to 
how  it  —  not  this  seeking  of  the  kingdom,  but  the  hair- 
dressing  —  was  done ;  the  other,  at  afternoon  service, 
upon  the  "mortifying  of  the  flesh;"  from  which  she 
went  straightway  home,  and  used  her  leisure  hours  of 
twilight  in  patient  experiments  before  her  glass,  until 
the  hairs  of  her  head,  which  the  Scripture-reading  of 
the  day  had  admonished  her  she  "could  neither  make 
white  nor  black,"  took  shape  and  place  as  she  desired. 

Rebecca  Gayworthy  shut  herself   in  her   chamber, 


DOWN  AMONG  THE  COMPANY.  23 

also ;  but  she  sat  there  in  a  still,  solemn  presence  that 
pervaded  her  soul ;  and  in  the  fair  garden  thereof  the 
Lord  God  walked  in  this  cool  of  his  day. 

So  Stacy  Lawton  came  to  the  strawberry  party  with 
her  dark  hair  banded  stylishly  from  off  her  face ;  and 
the  consciousness  that  she  was  looking  very  pretty,  and 
that  people  were  noticing  it,  gave  a  sparkle  to  her  eyes, 
and  a  sprightly  grace  and  ease  to  her  movements,  that 
made  her,  as  indeed  she  was  very  apt  at  all  times  to 
be,  quite  the  belle  of  the  occasion.  Say  what  you  will 
of  violets,  and  unconscious  charms,  the  perk  little  daisy 
gets  the  better  of  it  in  the  eye  of  the  world ;  and  there 
is  nothing  that  helps  beauty  so  to  its  full  success  as 
just  the  spice  of  consciousness  that  gives  confidence. 

And  Rebecca  had  put  from  her  the  like  adornment, 
for  conscience'  sake.  Foolishly,  you  say?  I  am  not 
sure.  There  is  somewhere  this  written,  — that  "all 
things  shall  work  together  for  good  to  them  that  love 
God."  Even  a  mistaken  or  needless  self-sacrifice, 
then.  "There  is  none  that  hath  forsaken  anything  for 
the  kingdom  of  heaven's  sake  but  shall  receive  mani 
fold  more."  God's  promise  to  pay  holds  good,  I 
think. 

Nevertheless,  it  is  very  true  that  Gordon  King,  as 
he  stood  talking  for  a  few  moments  with  Rebecca  upon 
his  first  entrance,  thought  silently  that  "somehow,  she 
wasn't  quite  so  pretty,  after  all,  as  he  had  fancied;  " 
and  that  Stacy  Lawton 's  bright  glance  and  musical 
laugh  enticed  him  presently  to  that  corner  of  the  room 
where  she  held  small,  merry  court ;  where  she  made 
room  for  him  at  her  side  with  a  beaming  look  that 
seemed  warm  welcome  only,  but  was  secretly,  also, 
kindled  of  a  coquettish  triumph. 

The  Reverend  Gordon  King  was  very  like  other 
young  men,  it  must  be  owned ;  and  although  he  preached 
from  the  Bible  on  a  Sunday  the  truth  he  found  there, 


24  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

he  went  out  from  his  pulpit  of  a  week-day  into  the 
little  world  about  him,  and  valued  the  things  thereof 
greatly  after  the  world's  own  fashion.  "Take  no 
thought  for  raiment,  what  ye  shall  put  on, "  he  had 
read  and  exhorted ;  yet  here  he  was,  quite  appreciative 
of  the  results  of  Miss  Stacy's  "taking  thought  "  which 
had  brought  about  all  this  blooming  prettiness  in  puffed 
hair  and  pink  muslin. 

I  do  not  mean  that  Gordon  King  was  a  hypocrite, 

—  to  be  ranked  with  the  Scribes  and  Pharisees  in  the 
condemnation.      I  mean  simply,  that  he  was  no  better 
than  human;  and  as  yet,  perhaps,  not  wholly  sancti 
fied  human.      There  may  be  snuffling,  canting,   "shep 
herds,  "  —  Stigginses,  Chadbands,  and  the  like  in  the 
world.      I  have  not  known  them.      I  only  speak  of 
people  of  whom  I  know  such  to  have  been. 

Preaching  ran  in  the  King  family;  as  politics  or 
doctoring,  sailoring  or  soldiering,  run  in  some  others. 
The  uncle  of  Gordon  had  been  a  divine,  eminent  in  his 
neighborhood,  degreed  in  due  course,  as  Doctor  Divini- 
tatis,  and  now  occupying  a  good  college  professorship. 
His  elder  brother  was  in  Batavia,  sent  out  by  the 
A.  B.  C.  F.  M.  His  father  was  an  influential  deacon 
in  the  church;  his  sister  had  married  the  Rev.  Felix 
Fairbrother ;  which  brings  him  into  the  pulpit  of  Hil- 
bury  and  into  the  scene  of  our  story.  He  had  gone 
through  a  college  course ;  he  had  studied  in  the  Divin 
ity  School ;  he  had  also,  as  needful  preliminary  to  this, 

—  not  feignedly.    but  of  good  faith,   putting  himself 
"  in  the  way  of  grace, "  —  gone  through  what  passed 
with  himself  and  those  about  him  for  the  genuine  order 
of  religious  experience ;  he  believed  himself,  and  was 
believed,  to  have  received  the  renewing  gift,  —  the  in 
tangible  ordinance  of  the  Spirit.      How  was  he  truly 
to  know  if  what  he  had  gotten  were  the  same  wherein 
another  soul  rejoiced  ? 


DOWN  AMONG  THE  COMPANY.  25 

Life  was  to  test  for  him  and  teach  him  this.  God, 
who  worked,  doubtless,  in  these  very  cues  of  circum 
stance,  calling  him  outwardly,  might  have  laid  up  for 
him  in  his  future  a  nobler,  intenser  experience  than 
any  to  which  he  had  yet  reached  in  these  five  and 
twenty  years  that  were  past. 

Meanwhile,  for  this  party  at  the  Gayworthys',  he 
had  dressed  with  thoughts  not  very  different  from  those 
that  any  other  bachelor  of  twenty-five  might  have  had, 
in  dressing  for  a  ladies'  party.  There  was  an  external 
difference.  He  folded  about  his  neck  the  white  cravat, 
at  that  time  the  still  distinctive  badge  of  his  order. 
Two  white  cravats,  successively,  I  should  say;  for  the 
first  that  he  essayed  proving  to  be  limply  starched, 
and  the  great  house-clock  below  reminding  him  at  the 
same  moment  of  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  he  had  flung 
it  down  with  a  very  unclerical  gesture  of  —  to  say  the 
least  —  impatience;  and  an  inarticulate  ejaculation 
that  on  ruder  or  unconsecrated  lips  might  have  gone 
nigh  to  syllable  itself  profanely.  I  don't  say  that  it 
was  n't  a  great  deal  better  so  than  if  he  had  actually 
said  anything  that  would  need  to  be  spelt  with  a  black 

;  and  I  don't  suppose  he  ever  did  use  bad  words. 

But  I  wonder  if,  after  all,  the  angels  up  above  listen  so 
heedfully  for  the  vibrations  of  these  gases  about  our 
earth  which  feed  and  pulsate  to  our  human  breath  as 
for  the  tremblings  of  the  unseen  spirit;  and  whether 
the  state  of  mind  of  the  Reverend  Gordon  King  for 
the  moment  was  really  so  widely  unlike  that  of  the 
poor  man  whose  hay-cart  I  saw  topple  over  in  the  field 
the  other  day,  and  who  did  say  something  with  a  dash 
in  the  middle.  And  I  am  afraid  that,  as  a  general 
statement,  men  are  but  men,  too  often;  and  that,  lest 
they  might  be  worse,  it  behooves  somebody  to  look 
after  them  pretty  carefully,  even  in  the  matter  of 
white  cravats. 


26  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

Howbeit,  this  was  he  whom  Rebecca,  in  her  inno 
cent  reverence,  held  as  one  sanctified  of  God  above 
common  men.  For  whom  she  would  not  use  any  harm 
less  art  of  outer  adornment ;  but  rather  hallow  herself, 
and  hold  herself  pure  of  earthly  vanity,  if  so,  at  least, 
she  might  keep  her  soul  upon  the  plane  of  such  as  his ; 
if  so,  at  least,  she  might  be  utterly  worthy,  whether  it 
should  please  God  that  she  might  win  his  love,  or  no. 
Ah,  there  is  a  sainthood  to  whose  companionship  such 
life  reaches,  though  that  which  it  believes  in  seem  to 
mock  its  faith! 

If  Gordon  King  had  held  the  answering  talisman  in 
his  own  soul,  he  should  not,  this  night,  have  been  lured 
away  to  the  false  princess,  while  the  true,  veiled  in 
her  meek-heartedness,  waited  so  near  his  side. 

Rebecca,  moving  about  among  the  guests  with  her 
Madonna  hair  and  quiet  look,  grew  even  a  shade  more 
quiet,  perhaps,  but  that  was  all.  Joanna,  bright  and 
laughing,  with  a  little  positive,  emphatic  way  of  her 
own  of  uttering  droll  or  absurdly  extravagant  things, 
that  made  everybody  else  laugh  with  her,  was  somehow 
also  a  little  more  pronounced  in  her  special  character 
istics,  —  a  little  more  queer,  and  animated,  and  hy 
perbolical  than  usual.  Nobody  guessed  —  as  she  kept 
a  knot  of  the  Hilbury  girls  in  chimes  of  merriment 
with  a  carefully  detailed  receipt  for  the  famous  short 
cake,  in  which  she  gravely  asserted  "soft  soap,  beaten 
to  a  cream, "  to  be  the  chief  ingredient,  and  described 
to  the  eager  questionings  the  secret  arrangement  of 
"seventeen  crash  flounces  "  which,  she  declared  (ladies 
were  not  caged  or  coopered  then),  held  Mrs.  Reuben's 
skirts  in  such  graceful  rotundity  —  the  stealthy  anx 
iety  that  glanced  through  all  her  fun,  in  the  quick 
half- turn  of  her  head  at  each  movement  near  the  door ; 
or  the  disappointment  that  was  gradually  settling  down 
cold  upon  her  heart,  as  time  wore  on,  and  somebody 


DOWN  AMONG  THE  COMPANY.  27 

whom  she  looked  for  did  not  come;  and  no  one  around 
her  caught,  as  she  did,  a  chance  word  of  Mrs.  Harts- 
home's,  who  stood  a  dozen  feet  off,  in  answer  to  a 
question  put  by  Mrs.  Prue,  that  Joanna  dared  not,  for 
her  life,  have  put,  herself. 

"Gabriel's  gone  over  to  Deepwater,  sailing  with 
the  Purcells.  He  promised  a  week  ago,  to  go,  when 
they  settled  on  a  day;  and  Aleck  Purcell  came  over 
this  morning  to  get  him." 

"Are  the  Frank  Purcells  staying  there  still?  " 

"Oh,  yes,  — the  young  folks.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  went 
back  last  Tuesday." 

After  that,  Joanna  laughed  more  merrily  yet,  and 
became  yet  more  absurd.  And  her  end  of  the  room 
grew  quite  noisy  with  the  "gale"  the  girls  got  into; 
and  plaintive  Mrs.  Fairbrother,  away  over  opposite, 
quite  worn  out  with  continual  mild,  ineffectual  remon 
strances  with  "Malviny,"  who,  as  the  minister's  child, 
was  privileged  to  be  taken  everywhere,  said  to  her  hus 
band,  —  "It  's  Joanna  Gayworthy.  She  's  always  in 
such  high  spirits.  She  '11  get  sobered  down,  one  of 
these  days,  when  she  comes  to  see  care  and  trouble." 

Joanna  Gayworthy,  at  the  same  moment,  was  think 
ing,  in  her  secret  heart,  how  nice  it  would  be,  when 
all  these  people  were  gone,  and  the  china  set  away,  and 
the  house  shut  up,  and  lights  put  out,  and  she  in  bed, 
having  a  good  cry  to  herself,  in  the  dark. 

Well,  —  this  was  a  strawberry  party.  It  makes  no 
difference.  That,  or  anything  else,  as  it  might  hap 
pen.  It  was  life,  which  finds  slight  outside  seeming 
and  excuse,  and  veils  so  its  great  workings.  You 
don't  hold  out  to  people,  undisguisedly,  the  hundred 
different  hopes  and  motives  which  you  know  will  bring 
them  together,  when  you  invite  them  to  your  house. 
You  ask  them  to  eat  strawberries,  or  to  listen  to  mu 
sic,  or  to  dance  the  polka.  The  rest  is  incidental,  — 


28  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

thrown  in.  So  we  come  to  live  double.  Nobody  says 
anything  about  it,  but  every  one  is  conscious  of  some 
thing,  be  it  what  it  may,  that  underlies  the  dressing, 
and  the  dancing,  and  the  feasting,  and  the  words  of 
the  hour,  which  is  the  reality;  else  there  is  none  in  it 
all.  Take  this  away,  and  the  whole  crumbles  into 
nothing.  The  game  is  not  worth  the  candle.  The 
candle,  henceforth,  goes  out. 

Dr.  Gayworthy  knew  all  this ;  but  he  had  got  past 
the  time  for  thinking  much  about  it.  He  could  have 
remembered  hours  wherein  all  life  had  seemed  to  him 
centred;  hours  that  seemed  an  existence,  questioning 
nothing  of  a  beginning  or  an  end;  a  husking,  or  a 
quilting,  or  a  winter  dance,  the  simple  scene  of  which 
had  widened  out  with  a  breadth  of  experience  that 
made  it  as  a  theatre  whereon  the  pivotal  act  of  a  hu 
man  life  was  played,  while  all  the  eager  stars  looked 
down;  he  could  have  remembered  when,  as  his  real 
life  withdrew  itself,  and  centred  otherwise  and  else 
where,  such  gatherings  began  to  lose  their  charm,  and 
he  came  to  wonder  how  it  was  that  there  were  no 
longer  any  such  drives,  or  dances,  or  bees,  or  frolics, 
as  had  been  when  he  was  young.  Now,  even  this  was 
past;  he  neither  participated  nor  wondered;  but  ac 
cepted  or  offered  a  hospitality  that  was  part  of  a  rou 
tine,  and  only  looked  to  it,  that,  so  far  as  depended 
upon  him,  everybody  got  their  tea  and  cake,  which  was 
what  they  had  ostensibly  come  for. 

So,  to-night,  the  doctor,  worthy  gentleman,  looked 
up  and  down  among  his  daughters'  guests,  and  saw 
that  all  was  plentiful  and  comfortable ;  and  he  walked 
about  the  rooms  after  tea  was  over,  and  noticed  every 
body,  and  chatted  with  a  few;  and  observed,  indeed, 
that  Rebecca  was  a  little  pale  and  still  to-night,  — 
tired,  perhaps,  with  her  preparations ;  and  that  Joanna 
was,  as  always,  a  gay  little  gypsy,  and  the  life  of  the 


DOWN  AMONG  THE  COMPANY.  29 

company;  and  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  imagine 
that  these  two  or  three  hours  wherein  he  wore  his  best 
coat,  and  submitted  to  this  little  temporary  stir  in  the 
house,  were  any  more  to  them,  by  chance,  than  they 
might  be  to  himself. 

As  the  company  thinned  off,  toward  nine  o'clock, 
this  little  scene  took  place  between  him  and  Mrs. 
Reuben  in  the  tea-room,  whence  Huldah  was  removing 
the  "things,"  and  whither  the  doctor  had  come  for  a 
surreptitious  "  third  cup  "  which  he  had  not  got  at  the 
regular  time. 

"Where  are  the  children?  I  haven't  seen  them 
to-night." 

"Why,  Gershom  got  Say  into  some  sort  of  a  scrape 
in  the  shed-chamber,  while  the  pigs  were  being  fed ; 
and  splashed  her  with  the  pails,  I  believe;  I  hadn't 
time  to  dress  her  over,  or  to  inquire  much  about  it. 
I  wish  the  boy  wasn't  so  rude  and  teasing." 

"Got  into  a  scrape,  did  they?  I  'm  sorry  for  that. 
He  's  a  very  good  sort  of  boy,  though,  Jane.  A  re 
markably  good  boy;  and  steady,  too,  for  his  age.  I 
don't  know  what  I  should  do  without  Gershom." 

Mrs.  Gair  was  apparently  intent  upon  a  stain  of 
something  which  had  fallen  upon  the  front  breadth  of 
her  new  silk,  and  which  she  was  trying  to  wipe  off 
with  a  wet  napkin. 

"He  ought  to  be  a  good  boy,"  she  remarked.  "He 
owes  more  to  you  than  he  '11  ever  be  able  to  pay." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  about  that,  — yet,"  said  the 
doctor.  "  If  things  were  squared  up  between  Prue  and 
the  boy  and  me,  I  don't  know  exactly  how  the  balance 
would  stand,  I  'm  sure." 

"Everybody  else  knows.  Why,  father,  you  could 
not  have  done  more  for  them  if  they  'd  been  your  own. 
To  be  sure, "  she  added,  as,  glancing  up  from  her  labor, 
she  caught  a  darkening  look  upon  the  doctor's  face,  "I 


30  THE  GAY  WORTHY  S. 

know,  of  course,  they  seem  just  like  your  own.  And 
I  don't  suppose  there  was  ever  a  mixed-up  family  like 
ours,  that  thought  so  little  of  the  difference.  But 
when  you  talk  of  squaring  up  accounts !  By  the  way, 
father,"  —  and  Mrs.  Gair  laid  down  the  napkin  and 
reached  the  sugar  for  the  doctor,  standing  by,  with  a 
thoughtful  expression,  while  he  bountifully  sweetened 
his  tea,  —  "now  you  speak  of  him,  have  you  ever 
thought  what  it  will  be  best  for  him  to  do,  one  of  these 
days  ?  He  's  getting  to  be  a  great  boy.  I  must  have 
a  talk  with  you  about  him  when  you  're  at  leisure, 
some  time,  before  I  go.  I  dare  say  Mr.  Gair  might 
find  something  for  him  in  Selport." 

Mrs.  Reuben  was  scrupulous  in  always  speaking  of 
her  husband  as  "Mr.  Gair,"  in  this  neighborhood, 
where  he  had  some  thirty  years  before  run  barefooted. 

"Time  enough  to  talk  about  that,"  replied  the  doc 
tor  a  little  impatiently.  Then,  setting  down  his  cup, 
resting  the  knuckles  of  his  hands  upon  the  table-edge, 
and  bending  forward  so,  for  a  moment,  he  seemed  to 
take  thought,  and  come  to  a  resolve. 

"Jane,"  he  said  seriously,  after  this  instant's 
pause,  changing  his  posture  and  moving  a  pace  closer 
to  her  side,  —  "don't  speak  to  Reuben  of  anything  of 
the  sort;  and  don't  talk  to  the  boy  about  Selport. 
There  's  time  enough,  as  I  said;  and  I  haven't  made 
up  my  mind.  At  least  I  should  n't  have  spoken  if  you 
hadn't  begun.  But  Hilbury  has  always  done  well 
enough  for  me,  and  I  've  been  in  hopes  it  might  do 
well  enough  for  Gershom.  He  's  all  the  boy  I  've  got, 
you  know." 

Yes,  Mrs.  Gair  knew  now  just  what  she  had  wanted 
to  find  out.  The  good  doctor  had  no  thought  of  Ger 
shom  Vorse  but  as  his  boy.  "All  the  boy  he  'd  got." 

Jane  Gair's  work  lay  straight  before  her,  and  then 
and  there  she  made  an  initial  stroke. 


DOWN  AMONG  THE  COMPANY.  31 

She,  too,  held  herself  an  instant  in  deliberation,  the 
while  she  resumed  again  the  napkin  she  had  laid  down, 
and  with  its  dry  corner  wiped,  leisurely  and  solici 
tously,  the  damp  spot  upon  her  dress.  "Oh,  yes," 
she  said  half  absently,  as  people  do  when  they  are 
mainly  intent  on  that  which  occupies  their  fingers,  and 
speak  mechanically.  "There 's  no  hurry.  And  I 
don't  know  as  it  would  have  occurred  to  me  to  say 
anything  about  it,  only  that  Gershom  has  been  asking 
me  some  questions,  now  and  then,  since  I  came  up, 
about  the  city.  It  seemed  to  me  as  though  he  had  got 
a  little  restless.  Boys  will,  you  know.  There, "  — 
once  more  dropping  the  napkin,  and  stroking  down  the 
folds  of  silk  with  her  fingers,  —  "I  don't  see  as  I  can 
do  anything  better  for  it,  now." 

"Better  let  it  be,"  said  Huldah  Brown,  coming  in 
for  a  fresh  relay  of  dishes,  and  catching  the  last  sen 
tence.  "It's  grease,  I  guess.  It's  easier  to  spot 
things  than  to  clean  'em,  a  good  deal." 

"Oh,  well,  never  mind,"  answered  Mrs.  Reuben 
good-naturedly,  "I'll  manage  it  among  the  gathers, 
and  it  won't  show."  And  she  moved  away  into  the 
front  rooms. 

"Jane  Gayworthy,  all  over!  "  ejaculated  Huldah,  as 
she  came  into  the  out-room  again,  where  Eben  sat, 
eating  strawberry  short-cake.  "She  allus  thinks  it 's 
no  matter  what 's  done,  as  long  as  it 's  tucked  away 
in  the  gethers,  out  of  sight.  For  my  part,  I  like 
things  good  and  clean,  (dear  through.  As  soon  as 
they  're  spotted  they  're  sp'ilt,  to  my  thinkin'." 

Eben  pushed  his  emptied  plate  into  the  middle  of 
the  table,  and,  tilting  his  chair  upon  its  hinder  legs, 
made  a  quadruped  of  himself  so,  and  walked  himself 
back  a  few  paces  as  Yankees  know  how,  till  he  rested 
comfortably  against  the  wall.  He  had  been  seated 
within  six  feet,  or  thereabouts,  of  the  steps  that  led 


32  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

up  into  the  kitchen  proper,  through  all  the  foregoing 
conversation.  The  busy  handmaiden,  in  the  clatter 
of  her  dishes,  farther  off,  had  caught  nothing  of  it, 
save  in  her  passages  to  and  fro. 

"Huldy  Brown!"  said  Eben  emphatically,  throw 
ing  up  his  arms  over  his  head  against  the  partition, 
and  crossing  his  long  legs  in  the  air.  "I  tell  you 
what  it  is!  I  don't  want  to  jedge  nobody;  but  I 
b'lieve,  as  I  've  got  a  created  soul,  she  '&  thunderin' 
sly!" 


CHAPTER  III. 

PEEKIN'  AND  HARKIN'. 

N  people  decline  peremptorily  the  discussion  of 
affairs,  you  may  be  sure  they  go  away  and  think  them 
over  all  the  more.  An  idea  like  this  suggested  itself 
to  Mrs.  Reuben  Gair.  Her  hint  of  Selport,  and  some 
thing  for  the  boy  to  do,  had  not  apparently  taken  di 
rect  effect ;  but  it  might  have  set  her  father  to  consid 
ering,  perhaps  a  little  prematurely,  as  regarded  her 
own  secret  wishes  in  the  matter.  Mrs.  Reuben  Gair 
was  not  mistaken  in  her  surmise. 

She  had  set  her  father  to  considering.  Or  rather, 
considerations  which  had  long  been  passively  revolving, 
as  it  were,  within  his  mind,  at  this  word  of  hers  took 
shape,  came  out,  and  would  be  looked  at.  They  grew 
to  definite  questions,  and  demanded,  suddenly,  deci 
sions. 

"You  couldn't  have  done  more  for  them  if  they  'd 
been  your  own !  "  There  might  be  something  more 
that  he  ought  to  do,  because  they  were  not  his  own. 
Somehow,  after  Jane's  words,  this  thought  pressed 
upon  him  obstinately,  and  refused  to  evaporate  itself 
into  mere  vague  purpose  for  the  future.  He  finished 
his  cup  of  tea,  and,  turning  away  rather  abruptly, 
walked  out  upon  the  door-stone  where  Rebecca  and  Say 
had  had  their  little  talk  together  before  the  "com 
pany  "  came. 

The  company  —  that  of  it  which  still  remained  — 
was  gathered  at  the  front  of  the  house,  within  and 
without.  Laughter  and  merry  speech  of  young  voice? 
came  around  from  the  pleasant  door-yard,  where  thtf 


34  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

moon  shone  down  upon  June  roses,  and  upon  human 
life  also  in  its  June. 

The  good  doctor  stood  musingly  and  listened,  look 
ing  up  to  the  still  night-heaven,  unrolling  the  same 
slow-moving,  gorgeous  scroll  as  long  ago,  when  it  had 
been  blossoming-time  with  him  as  well.  And,  stand 
ing  there,  he  felt,  rather  than  thought,  how  men  change, 
and  lives  pass,  and  the  great,  unaltered  skies  look  down 
on  all.  God  laid  his  hand  over  him  so,  and  sealed 
thought  into  action.  He  scarcely  knew  why,  but  in 
those  moments  his  "mind  was  made  up." 

"I  won't  leave  things  at  loose  ends  another  hour," 
said  he  at  last,  and  turning  back  from  the  doorway,  he 
walked  straight  through  the  long  kitchen,  passing  on 
into  his  own  little  private  room,  which  adjoined.  Here 
he  found  his  good  friend,  Parson  Fairbrother,  who, 
after  having  done  his  social  duty  among  the  company, 
had  made  his  privileged  way  hither,  to  mouse,  as  he 
was  apt  to  do,  among  the  old  books ;  and  was  at  this 
moment  quite  lost  in  something  he  had  lit  upon  among 
the  pages  of  Burton's  Anatomy. 

"  I  want  a  little  talk  with  you,  Parson,  if  you  please ; 
and  I  've  got  a  five-minutes'  bit  of  business  to  do.  You 
shall  take  old  Burton  home,  if  you  like, "  said  the  doc 
tor,  closing  the  door  by  which  he  had  entered,  —  the 
parson  had  already  shut  that  leading  to  the  best  parlor, 
to  exclude  disturbing  sounds,  —  and  pushing  two  great 
leathern  armchairs  toward  the  table,  in  one  of  which 
he  seated  himself,  while  Mr.  Fairbrother,  turning  down 
a  leaf,  carefully  closed  the  volume,  and  came  forward, 
in  compliance,  to  the  other. 

When  the  parsonage  party  —  Mrs.  Fairbrother, 
Malviny,  and  Gordon  King,  with  Miss  Stacy  Lawton, 
who  had  heedlessly  let  the  Gibsons,  her  next-door  neigh 
bors,  go  home  without  her  fifteen  minutes  before,  and 
who  now  availed  herself  of  the  Fairbrother  escort,  "only 


PEEKIN'  AND  HARKIN\  35 

for  as  far  as  they  went  "  —  was  gathering  to  take  leave, 
the  good  minister,  after  considerable  outcry,  was  found 
thus  cosily  closeted  with  the  doctor;  and  when  sum 
moned  a  second  time  by  Malviny,  sent  word  that  they 
"might  step  along.  He  'd  come  presently."  It  was 
nothing  unusual.  Nobody  gave  the  circumstance  a 
second  thought,  unless,  indeed,  the  watchful  elder 
daughter  of  the  house. 

Presently  —  I  should  think,  though,  a  good  half  hour 
after  —  Mrs.  Gair,  wondering  very  much,  and  waiting 
to  put  out  the  last  candles,  while  her  sisters  were  busied 
setting  other  things  to  rights,  heard  her  father  go  with 
the  minister  to  the  front  gate,  and  say  good-night ;  re 
turning  directly  to  his  own  little  room  again,  whence, 
in  a  few  moments,  stole  out  the  deferred  fragrance  of 
his  evening  pipe. 

There  seemed  to  be  a  good  deal  revolving  in  various 
brains  that  night  in  the  Gay  worthy  farmhouse.  It 
might  have  been  late  tea-drinking,  or  strawberry  short 
cake,  or  the  mental  stimulus  of  social  contact ;  what 
ever  it  was,  people  did  not  go  straight  to  bed  and  to 
sleep,  according  to  their  wont. 

Mrs.  Vorse,  having  with  her  own  hands  set  every 
precious  bit  of  china  back  into  the  closet  sacred  to  its 
keeping,  departed  up  the  staircase  to  the  kitchen  cham 
ber  with  an  armful  of  linen,  enjoining  on  Huldah,  as 
she  went,  to  see  everything  safe  in  the  out-room  for 
the  night. 

Huldah  had  milkpans  to  wash,  and  bread  to  set; 
but  she  sang  to  herself  cheerily  as,  left  apparently 
alone  in  all  the  lower  part  of  the  house,  she  moved, 
not  a  whit  loath  or  wearily,  from  kitchen  to  dairy, 
from  dairy  to  the  large,  lonely  out-room,  where  waited 
her  last  work  for  the  night.  She  sang  as  she  gathered 
her  pans,  whose  contents  had  been  rifled  of  their  cream 
for  the  feasting;  as  she  wiped  down  sweet-smelling 


36  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

shelves,  whose  purity  neither  drop  nor  dust  might  de 
file  ;  as  she  poured  away  the  skimmed  milk  into  the 
large,  tidy  tub  that  stood  in  the  far  corner  to  accumu 
late  the  dainty  waste  whose  destination  we  know ;  sang 
on,  with  a  sudden  glee  in  her  voice,  as  she  carried  the 
freshly  scalded  tins  out  presently  at  the  door,  and  set 
them  gleaming  there  in  the  moonlight,  catching,  as  she 
did  so,  glimpse  of  a  tall,  stalwart  figure  —  not  raw- 
boned  and  shambling,  but  sturdy,  well-built,  albeit 
Yankee  to  the  vertebral  main-shaft  —  that  gathered 
itself  up  from  leaning  over  the  garden  fence,  and  saun 
tered  with  great  strides  toward  her.  The  song  broke 
into  a  laugh  as  she  turned  back  again,  ignoring  the 
presence,  and  said  to  herself,  with  a  spasm  of  fun 
bubbling  up  among  her  words :  — 

"I  knew  it!  I  was  certin  he  'd  jest  go  and  be  re- 
dick' lous  ag'in!  " 

Eben  Hatch  and  Huldah  Brown  had  grown  up,  boy 
and  girl  together,  upon  the  Gayworthy  farm. 

When  Huldah  was  eighteen,  her  mother  —  who  had 
been  "brought  up,"  as  the  country  phrase  is  for  ex 
pressing  board-and-clothes-remunerated  service,  by  the 
mother  of  Dr.  Gayworthy,  and  who  had  married,  had 
a  child,  been  widowed,  and  returned  to  her  old  employ, 
as  if  she  had  been  simply  put  out  at  interest,  Hul 
dah,  with  the  eight  years'  start  in  the' world  standing 
for  the  percentage  of  Mrs.  Brown's  ten  years'  absence, 
and  accompanying  her  mother,  to  be  profitably  "brought 
up  "  in  her  turn  —  had  died,  leaving  her  daughter  to 
the  comfortable  hereditary  position  which  was  practi 
cally  little  less  privileged  or  more  precarious  than  that 
of  a  daughter  of  the  house. 

Since  that  time,  Eben  had  had  frequent  turns  of 
being  what  Huldah  called  "redick'lous;  "  but  as  yet, 
owing,  as  he  thought,  to  persistent  ill-luck,  —  as  Hul 
dah  secretly  believed,  to  "special  interpositions," — • 


PEEKIN^  AND  HARKIN\  37 

he  had  never,  however  often  he  had  shamefacedly  es 
sayed  it,  got  the  step  beyond,  which  might  have  touched 
the  sublime;  in  his  own  words,  he  had  "somehow  never 
quite  made  out  to  fetch  it." 

They  were  always  nervous  occasions  these,  to  Hul- 
dah;  she  would  n't  care  to  have  them  go  a  hair's- 
breadth  further  than  they  did ;  she  hailed  devoutly  the 
"  interpositions  "  which  Providence  —  usually,  it  must 
be  owned,  through  the  instrumentality  of  her  own  wo 
manly  artifice  —  threw  in ;  she  drew  what  would  have 
been  a  long  breath,  if  it  hadn't  at  the  same  time  been 
a  secret  chuckle,  when  Eben,  looking  a  blank  surprise, 
found  himself  suddenly  at  the  end  of  his  opportunity, 

—  like  the  sheep  fenced  in  with  such  a  crooked  art, 
that  when  he  had  fairly,  as  he  thought,  jumped  the 
inclosure,  he  found  himself  back  upon  the  same  side, 

—  and  the  danger  was  for  that  time  over.      Neverthe 
less,  at  due  intervals,  she  was  best  pleased  after  all 
that  the  peril  should  recur.      If  Eben  had  n't  now  and 
then  been  "redick'lous  "   at  home,    there  would  have 
been  no  knowing  that  he  was  n't  "redick'lous  "  — nay, 
even  achieving  the  sublime  —  elsewhere. 

So  Huldah  drew  herself  back  out  of  the  moonlight, 
with  an  instinct  of  shunning  any  over-sentimental  ac 
cessories,  and  disappeared  down  the  trap  stairway  to 
the  cellar,  for  the  jug  of  yeast,  as  Eben  stepped  over 
the  threshold. 

"You  there?"  she  exclaimed,  when  she  emerged 
again  from  below,  and  found  him  just  where  she  knew 
he  would  be,  waiting  in  the  night- shine  at  the  open 
door. 

"Yes.  I'm  here,  Huldy.  Jest  come  an'  look  at 
the  moon !  Of  all  the  June  nights  I  ever  see,  this  is 
the  crowner !  " 

Huldah  understood  him  and  his  moon-rapture.  The 
heavenly  satellite  had  precious  little,  in  reality,  to  do 


38  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

with  it;  the  same  old  story  veiled  itself  so,  in  his 
homely  New  England  dialect,  that  Lorenzo  breathed 
to  Jessica  out  there  in  Venice,  in  the  verse  she  never 
heard  of.  If  there  had  never  been  a  moon,  there 
would  have  been  lovers,  doubtless,  all  the  same,  and 
they  might  easily  have  found  something  else  to  talk 
about.  What  they  pretend  to  look  at,  or  to  speak  of, 
is  no  matter;  as  well  squashes  as  sunbeams;  the  sub 
ject  is  but  as  the  indifferent  third  substance,  in  chem 
istry,  —  thrown  in  only  that  the  others  may  unite ;  the 
thing  is,  to  bring  the  two  souls  together. 

Huldah,  however,  eschewed  the  whole,  as  moon 
shine,  all  of  it ;  and,  taking  herself  away  out  of  its 
perilous  gleams,  walked  straight  over  to  her  bread- 
pan;  remarking,  only,  very  unsympathetically,  as  she 
did  so,  that  "she  'd  seen  the  moon  afore;  she  guessed 
there  wasn't  anything  special  about  it;  at  any  rate, 
she  had  n't  time  to  look. " 

If  Huldah  once  got  her  hands  fairly  into  the  dough, 
there  was  where  Eben's  bread  would  be,  sure  enough; 
so,  while  she  measured  the  yeast,  and  scooped  the  or 
thodox  hollow  for  it  in  the  flour,  and  began  to  stir  it 
in,  gently,  with  her  wooden  spoon,  he  ventured  with  a 
fresh  persistence. 

"The  folks  out  there  in  the  front  yard  was  tellin', 
to-night,  about  the  moon  lookin'  different  to  different 
people ;  come  here,  Huldy,  jest  a  minute !  I  want  to 
know  how  big  you  think  it  is !  " 

"You  great  gander!  "  exploded  Huldah,  at  this 
very  barefaced  and  absurd  artifice.  But  she  glanced 
out  of  the  open  window,  nevertheless,  up  at  the  moon's 
jolly  disk,  that  laughed  broadly  down  upon  them  both, 
through  door  and  casement ;  and  laughed,  heaven 
knows,  at  the  same  moment,  on  how  many  others  like 
them,  of  varied  place  and  degree. 

"They  made  it  out,"  pursued    Eben,   not   a    whit 


PEEKIN'  AND  HAEKIN\  39 

abashed,  "all  the  way  from  a  cart-wheel  to  a  tea- 
plate  ;  for  my  part,  it  looks  as  much  as  anything  like 
the  biggest  meller  punkin  't  ever  I  see!  " 

"I  can  find  something  that  's  enough  like  that  with 
out  going  to  the  moon  to  look  for  't!  " 

As  pumpkins  are  not  ordinarily  abundant  during 
the  strawberry  season,  there  was  no  resisting  the  con 
clusion  that  Huldah  meant  to  be  metaphorical,  with  a 
dash  of  personality. 

"Now,  Huldy!  I  '11  give  in  that  you  're  a  plaguy 
smart  girl,  'ithout  your  goin'  on  to  hector  me,  that 
way,  all  night.  See  here,  — do  you  b'lieve  all  them 
stars  has  got  people  in  'em,  like  us?  " 

"I  should  hope  not,  exactly.  I  guess  the  Lord's 
got  his  hands  full,  if  they  have !  " 

Huldah  would  neither  be  drawn  into  sentiment  nor 
speculation;  she  was  bent,  to-night,  upon  the  purely 
practical;  this  was  plain  from  the  way  in  which  she 
plumped  her  capable  hands  into  the  pan,  and  began  the 
sort  of  calisthenics  that  had  developed  to  their  comely 
proportions  the  not  ungraceful  limbs  whose  drapery, 
tucked  up  to  the  shoulders,  displayed  smooth-curving 
outlines  that  many  a  city  belle,  with  a  two-pronged 
elbow,  might  have  looked  upon  in  a  sickening  of  envy. 
Eben  must  choose  a  shorter  road  to  his  object,  than  all 
the  way  around  among  the  constellations. 

"  Huldy !  "  began  again  the  long-suffering  wooer, 
approaching  shyly  the  table  at  which,  not  devoid  of  a 
coquettish  consciousness,  Huldah  tossed,  and  doubled, 
and  patted,  and  punched  the  wheaten  mass  that  gave 

—  and  nothing,    if    you  knew,    gives  better  —  oppor 
tunity  for  such  varied  charm  of  attitude,  —  "you  air 
a  master  hand  at  makin'  bread,  that  's  a  fact!   and   as 
to  strawberry  short-cake !  I  '11  be  —  buttered  —  if  ever 
I  ate  such  a  one  as  that  was  to-night !  " 

"Seems  to  me  everything  suits  with  you,  just  now, 

—  from  moonshine  down." 


40  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

(Ah,  Huldah !  that  was  a  very  badly  played  card. 
Eben  had  his  trump  all  ready  for  that.  He  would 
have  been  obtuser,  otherwise,  than  ever  yet  Yankee 
lover  was.) 

"Yes,  Huldah,"  — and  he  came  as  close  as  the  now 
very  vigorously  busy  elbows  would  let  him,  and  his 
voice  lowered  a  tone,  and  deepened  with  true  feeling 
that  struggled  into  homely  expression,  —  "I  'm  pretty 
well  suited!  I  only  wish  —  everybody  else  was! 
Don't  you  think  "  — 

I  hold  that  he  was  doing  it  very  cleverly,  now.  He 
would  have  grown  eloquent  presently;  truth  and  pas 
sion,  let  them  once  get  utterance,  can  be  nothing  else. 
But  there  came  an  interposition,  as  usual.  Huldah 
was  saved  the  necessity  of  thinking.  There  came  a 
tread  across  the  kitchen  within,  and  the  tall  figure  of 
Dr.  Gayworthy,  in  gown  and  slippers,  appeared  upon 
the  upper  step  at  the  doorway.  He  held  in  his  hand 
a  candle  that  had  been  blown  out. 

"Things  air  overruled,  certin, "  Huldah  breathed  to 
herself,  as  Eben  precipitately  made  his  way  to  the 
outer  door  again ;  thrown  back  now  upon  the  apparent 
comparative  measurement  of  spheres,  cereal  and  celes 
tial. 

"  Durn  it  all !  "  muttered  the  unfortunate  suitor, 
nonsuited.  "I  never  come  so  nigh  fetchin'  it,  afore! 
Now,  I  've  got  it  all  to  dew  over  ag'in!  Lord  knows 
when,  —  I  don't!" 

Dr.  Gayworthy  reached  his  candle  to  the  lamp  upon 
Huldah' s  table,  and  borrowed  a  flame  therefrom; 
saying,  as  he  did  so, — 

"When  you  have  finished,  Huldah,  will  you  and 
Eben  come  to  my  little  room  a  moment  ?  I  should 
like  you  to  write  your  names  as  witnesses,  upon  a 
business  paper  I  have  had  to  sign." 

"  Oh,  certin, "  answered  Huldah,  giving  her  ball  of 


AND  HAEEIN'.  41 

dough  a  final  roll  and  flop  over,  and  smiting  her  palms 
up  and  down  against  each  other  to  shake  off  the  flour. 
"Jest  as  soon  as  I  've  washed  my  hands." 

Very  much  flustered,  inwardly,  was  Huldah  at  this 
summons;  first,  with  curiosity  as  to  the  document  to 
be  signed;  secondly,  with  the  thrill  of  importance 
people  who  never  had,  nor  expect  to  have,  any  personal 
concern  with  papers  of  consequence,  are  apt  to  feel  at 
being  called  upon  to  make  valid  with  their  names  the 
instruments  that  dispose  of  the  affairs  of  others; 
thirdly,  at  the  thought  of  the  two  names  required  in 
juxtaposition;  "it  seemed  so  redick'lous;  jest  as  if 
they  was  bindin'  themselves  to  something,  together. " 

She  had  time  to  think  all  this,  as  she  washed  her 
hands  and  let  down  her  sleeves,  and  Dr.  Gayworthy, 
setting  down  the  lighted  candle,  followed  Eben  out 
into  the  moonlight,  to  make  sure  of  him,  and  to  say 
something  about  the  next  day's  mowing. 

There  had  been  time,  also,  for  certain  other  things 
to  be  thought  and  done,  elsewhere. 

Excitement  and  strawberry  short-cake  had  made 
little  Sarah  Gair  restless  to-night.  So  she  had  toss- 
ings  and  dreams  and  starts,  and  wakings ;  and  at  ten 
o'clock  she  roused,  agitatedly,  from  a  fearful  vision, 
—  of  a  horse's  head  without  any  body,  that  came  in  at 
the  windows  and  chased  her  about  the  house,  till  her 
feet  struggled  vainly  to  move,  and  she  stood  paralyzed, 
with  his  hot  breath  pouring  close  upon  her,  and  envel 
oping  her,  —  to  find  her  mother  standing  by  the  open 
sash,  where  nothing  worse  came  in  than  the  sweet 
night  gleam,  and  the  warm  southwest  sighs  of  June. 

Mrs.  Gair  was  thinking.  No,  —  not  thinking, 
purely;  for  thinking  is  a  good  thing.  Worrying, 
scheming,  wishing,  anticipating,  —  which  half  that  we 
call  thinking  really  is,  —  may  be  very  different  things ; 
very  far  from  good  in  themselves  or  likely  to  work 


42  THE  GAYWOETHTS. 

good  when  they  ripen  into  action.  This  is  the  sort 
of  "taking  thought  "  that  we  are  warned  against.  Mrs. 
Gair  would  better  have  gone  to  bed,  and  said  her 
prayer  for  forgiveness,  and  deliverance,  and  daily 
bread,  and  left  the  details  she  was  anxious  about  to 
the  Knowledge  and  the  Power  that  were  beyond  her 
own,  than  have  stood  there  in  the  beauty  of  that 
summer  night,  striving  selfishly  to  conjecture  and  to 
plan. 

What  was  there,  you  may  wonder,  for  her  to  con 
jecture  and  to  plan  about  ?  Here  was  no  lordly  inher 
itance,  whose  bestowal  was  a  question  for  the  fore 
thought  and  competition  of  long  years;  that  might 
rationally,  according  to  the  common  acceptance  of 
human  nature,  suggest  motive  for  rivalry,  and  strategy, 
and  craft.  Here  was  only  a  plain,  New  England 
homestead,  and  the  property  resulting  from  the  thrift 
and  industry  that  had  held  sway  through  a  couple  of 
generations,  in  which  father  and  son,  worthy  and  in 
telligent  farmer-physicians,  had  done  simple  credit 
and  worked  steady  benefit  to  name  and  estate.  This 
was  all.  Therefore,  you  need  not  expect,  0  devourer 
of  high-flown  and  deep-laid  romance,  to  find  in  these 
pages  profound  mysteries,  diabolical  contrivance,  un 
heard-of  wrongs,  and  a  general  crash  of  retribution  and 
ecstasy  at  the  end.  Yet  in  ever  so  simple  a  New 
England  family,  there  may  be  privacies  and  secrets ; 
there  may  be  conflicting  interests ;  the  Tempter  may 
find  a  cranny  through  which  to  whisper,  beguiling  souls 
by  mean  motives  to  questionable  acts.  "There  is  a 
great  deal  of  human  nature  in  the  world ;  "  and  it 
is  n't  all  over  the  water,  where  there  are  lords  and 
ladies,  and  manorial  estates ;  for  upwards  of  two  cen 
turies  it  has  been  growing  in  these  New  England  hills, 
and  bringing  forth  fruit  after  its  kind.  Besides,  even 
among  the  granite,  gold  does  gather;  and  the  well- 


PEEKIN^  AND  HARKING  43 

harvested  results  of  two  careful  lives  may  present  an 
aggregate  at  last,  not  at  all  to  be  despised,  even  in  its 
distribution  according  to  a  law  which  recognizes  no 
closer  sonship  in  the  first  child  than  in  the  ninth. 

Also  I  have  never  noticed  that,  as  the  children  of  a 
household  go  out  and  meet  their  own  varied  fortunes 
in  the  world,  there  is  apt  to  be  any  greater  indifference 
to  original  claims,  when  money  comes  to  be  in  ques 
tion,  with  those  upon  whom  success  has  so  broadly 
smiled  that  their  share  of  patrimony  might  seem  al 
most  as  coals  to  Newcastle,  than  with  the  rest.  On 
the  contrary,  these  Newcastles  are  curiously  ready  to 
take  in  all  the  coal  they  can  get,  if  ever  a  little  ship 
comes  along  and  brings  any. 

So  Mrs.  Gair,  with  her  husband  owning  four  or  five 
vessels  upon  the  high  seas,  in  thriving  communication 
with  West  Indian  and  South  American  ports,  —  hold 
ing  himself  as  a  merchant  of  consequence  on  'Change, 
—  troubled  her  mind  here  at  the  old  homestead,  in 
Hilbury,  during  her  little  summer  stay,  as  to  what 
might  befall,  regarding  it,  some  ten,  twenty,  who 
knows  but  even  thirty  or  more,  years  hence. 

And  neither  she  nor  little  Say  could  sleep  well  this 
June  night. 

Say  —  after  she  had  cried  out  and  called  her  mother 
to  the  bedside,  and  gasped  out  the  horror  of  her 
dream,  and  been  soothed  and  hushed,  and  laughed  at, 
and  had  the  sheets  and  pillows  smoothed  —  got  over 
her  fright,  and  grew  wide  awake,  and  wanted  a  story. 

"Tell  me,  mother,"  she  said,  "about  the  earth 
quake  when  you  were  a  little  girl." 

Every  child  who  has  a  mother  has  also  certain  stereo 
typed  "  stories, "  for  which,  at  all  sorts  of  incongruous 
and  inconvenient  conjunctures,  it  teases  her.  This,  of 
the  earthquake,  was  chief  favorite  among  Sarah  Gair's. 

So  Mrs.   Gair,  with  her  mind  running  upon  other 


44  THE  GAYWOETHYS, 

things,  told,  mechanically,  how,  when  she  was  quite 
a  little  girl,  she  and  Aunt  Prue  were  left  by  them 
selves  one  winter  night,  in  the  house ;  their  father  and 
mother  having  gone  over  to  Deepwater  to  stay  with  a 
sick  aunt ;  and  how,  after  they  had  popped  corn,  and 
roasted  apples,  and  eaten  cimbals,  and  told  stories  till 
ten  o'clock,  they  had  all  gone  to  bed,  and  to  sleep. 
How,  long  after,  they  were  wakened  by  a  strange 
trembling,  and  a  noise  as  if  a  great  wind  shook  the 
house,  though  it  was  a  calm,  still,  clear  night,  —  or 
as  if  somebody  walked  about  heavily,  downstairs. 
How  they  —  the  sisters  —  called  out  from  their  room 
to  Serena,  Huldah's  mother,  who  lived  here  then. 

"And  the  china  rattled,  mother!  You  left  out 
that." 

Whatever  variety  children  demand  otherwise,  they 
will  have  none  in  the  telling  of  a  story.  Leave  out  a 
phrase  or  a  circumstance  at  your  peril. 

"Yes,  the  china  rattled, — and  they  thought  rob 
bers  were  in  the  house.  And  Serena,  half  awake, 
laughed  at  them,  and  told  them  to  turn  over  and  go 
to  sleep  again.  And  then,  in  a  minute,  it  came 
again  "  — 

Something  at  this  instant  actually  rolled,  or  rum 
bled,  faintly,  in  the  house  below. 

"Mother!  "  cried  Say,  bolt  upright  in  bed,  "there  's 
one  now.  Hark!  " 

And  something  surely  rumbled  back  again. 

"Nonsense,  child!  Lie  down  again.  It's  only 
Huldah,  I  suppose,  rolling  back  the  great  table." 

But,  for  all  that,  Mrs.  Gair  didn't  quite  think  so; 
and  after  waiting  a  little  while  and  listening,  she 
said  suddenly,  "I  '11  go  down  and  get  you  a  drink  of 
water,  Say,  and  then  you  must  go  to  sleep." 

"But  you  haven't  finished  the  story,  mother!  " 

"Never  mind.      Let  it  be  till  to-morrow  morning. 


•     PEEKIN*  AND  HARKIN\  45 

I  '11  finish  it  then.  I  would  n't  think  any  more  about 
earthquakes,  to-night." 

It  was  a  simple  thing,  on  the  outside,  Mrs.  Gair's 
going  down  to  fetch  a  glass  of  water  for  her  wakeful 
child.  If  she  had  had  nothing  else  in  her  mind,  she 
might  have  gone  and  come  back,  and  been  led  into  no 
harm.  As  it  was,  it  involved  consequences  that  after 
ward  she  would  gladly  have  gone  back  from.  It  is 
the  double  motive  that  makes  the  smallest  doing  per 
ilous;  that  takes  us  out  of  the  track  of  Providence 
concerning  us,  and  puts  us  where  we  have  no  business 
to  be.  Single-heartedness,  alone,  goes  safely,  even 
among  trivial  things.  If  it  had  really  been  but  care 
for  the  child  which  prompted  her,  Mrs.  Gair  would 
doubtless  have  finished  her  story,  and  gone  quietly  to 
bed.  But  she  knew  that  people  were  still  up  and 
moving  below ;  she  had  not  heard  her  father  go  to  his 
chamber ;  she  was  eager,  restless,  vaguely  uneasy ;  so 
she  would  go  down  and  get  a  drink  of  water  for  Say, 
and  look  about  a  little,  as  she  went. 

The  staircase  upon  which  she  stepped  from  her 
chamber  door,  and  descended  softly,  came  down  to 
close  within  the  front  entrance  of  the  house.  On 
either  side  at  the  foot,  opened  doors ;  that  on  the  right 
into  the  family  sitting-room ;  on  the  left  into  the  best 
parlor,  between  which  and  the  kitchen  was  the  doc 
tor's  "little  room,"  —  office,  library,  or  study,  — so 
phrased. 

Mrs.  Gair  set  her  light  upon  the  lower  stair,  and 
passed  noiselessly  into  the  parlor.  Here  the  shutters 
had  been  closed,  and  it  was  dark.  The  door  commu 
nicating  thence  with  the  little  room  was  ajar;  the 
aperture  showing  by  a  faint  gleam,  — but  only  of  the 
moon. 

There  was  no  other  light  there ;   and  all  was  still. 

But  voices   were   distinguishable    away   out   in  the 


46  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

house  beyond.  Mrs.  Gair  glided  back  and  took  up 
her  candle.  She  would  just  see  how  things  looked. 
Without  any  definite  idea,  she  wondered  what  her 
father  could  have  been  about,  or  occupied  with  in 
thought,  to  be  kept  so  beyond  his  usual  regular  hour. 

Very  little,  it  seemed. 

On  the  writing-table,  which  stood  in  the  centre  of 
the  floor,  lay  a  half-sheet  of  paper,  folded  down  across 
the  middle,  —  the  doubled  edges  standing  apart  a  lit 
tle.  Below  the  fold  a  couple  of  lines,  in  the  large, 
nervous  handwriting  of  her  father,  were  visible  to  Mrs. 
Gair.  Possibly  only  a  prescription  or  a  bill.  She 
would  see.  Jane  Gair!  Are  you  in  the  line  of  Provi 
dential  orderings,  now  ?  Has  God  or  the  devil  brought 
you  hither  to  search  out  this  ?  In  five  minutes  you 
will  hold  that  in  your  knowledge  which,  hereafter,  you 
would  almost  give  five  years  of  your  life  if  it  might 
only,  so,  be  stricken  from  your  memory.  So  you 
should  have  had  no  sin.  Henceforth,  your  sin  remain- 
eth. 

"Signed,  this  night,  June  27,  18 — . 

"BENJAMIN  GAYWORTHT. 
"In  presence  of 
FELIX  FAIRBROTHER." 

Jane  Gair  turned  back  the  paper.  There  were, 
perhaps,  fifteen  lines  upon  the  upper  half  of  the  page. 
Her  eye  glanced  over  them  quickly,  and  a  sudden  flame 
flashed  into  her  cheeks.  Not  shame.  She  had  not 
begun  to  think  of  that,  though  it  should  surely  come. 
For  she  laid  the  folded  paper  back,  deliberately,  as 
she  had  found  it,  walked  out  into  the  parlor  again, 
blew  out  her  candle,  stood  still,  and  listened. 

Dr.  Gayworthy's  step  was  already  heard,  recrossing 
the  kitchen.  He  reentered  his  room  and  approached 


PEEKIN^  AND  HARKING  47 

the  table.  Huldah's  true-poised  footfall  followed, 
and  then  the  clumsy  tread  of  Eben  behind,  making 
miserable  work  of  trying  to  walk  lightly,  as  befitted 
carpets. 

Huldah  moved  straight  on,"  close  after  the  doctor, 
and  only  paused  when  he  did;  standing  just  behind 
him,  leaning  a  little  forward,  one  arm  akimbo,  the 
other  hanging  by  her  side,  the  fingers  of  its  hand  roll 
ing,  a  little  nervously,  a  fold  of  her  gown.  Flurried, 
but  alert ;  all  her  keen,  feminine  senses  ready  to  com 
prehend  quickly  and  do  creditably.  Eben,  less  eager, 
more  bashful,  fell  back.  He  took  up  his  station, 
waiting,  just  beside  the  doorpost,  on  the  other  side  of 
which,  in  the  dark  parlor,  stood  that  other  figure, 
keen  and  alert  also,  listening  at  every  pore. 

It  was  only  for  an  instant,  but  in  that  instant  Eben 
Hatch  had  the  vague,  strange  consciousness  that  we 
have  all  known  of  an  unseen  human  presence.  The 
room  behind  him,  beside  whose  open  door  he  stood, 
did  not  feel  empty.  He  made  an  involuntary  step 
into  the  entrance.  Jane*  Gair  shrunk  a  little,  as  in 
voluntarily  ;  there  was  a  slight,  crisp  sound,  —  it 
might  have  been  the  maple  leaves  in  the  night  wind, 
—  Eben  had  not  time  to  conjecture,  or  to.  recognize 
the  unfamiliar  silken  whisper. 

The  doctor  took  uji  a  pen,  and  glanced  round. 
"This,  you  see, — both  of  you,"  —  Eben  came  for 
ward,  —  "  to  be  my  signature ;  "  and  he  rapidly  traced 
over  his  own  bold  characters  at  the  right  of  the  sheet. 
"Now,  Huldah,  your  name  here." 

Huldah  received  the  pen  with  a  look  of  shy  impor 
tance,  thinly  disguised  by  an  air  of  matter-of-course 
acquiescence,  and,  carefully  straightening  the  paper 
before  her,  sat  down,  and  occupied  perhaps  a  minute 
in  executing,  in  her  handsomest  style  of  hair  lines  and 
bulgy  dots,  acquired  with  infinite  pains,  the  letters  of 


48  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

her  name,  which  had  an  appearance,  when  finished,  as 
if  constructed  of  some  minute  specimen  of  the  seaweed 
which  grows  in  an  alternation  of  thin  strings  and 
leather  bubbles. 

Then  Eben  essayed ;  "and  with  many  slow  vibrations 
of  his  head  from  side  to  side,  accompanied  with  re 
verse  or  balancing  motions  of  his  rigidly  protruded 
tongue,  grasping  the  pen  close  down  toward  the  nib, 
and  inking  himself  profusely,  accomplished,  duly, 
"Ebenezer  Hatch,"  the  "ezer"  a  little  detached  and 
raised  above  the  plane  of  the  "  Eben, "  as  long  unac 
customed  to  the  conjunction,  and  the  "  Hatch  "  rush 
ing  headlong  down  hill,  as  if  ashamed  of  and  eager  to 
get  away  from  both. 

Dr.  Gayworthy's  "business  paper"  was  signed.  It 
had  become  a  valid  instrument.  He  dismissed  his 
witnesses  with  thanks,  and  the  remark  that  there 
would  be  no  need  for  them  to  mention  what  they  had 
done.  No  need,  truly.  They  knew  very  little  about 
it.  The  witness  who  did  know  all,  but  who  had 
signed  no  name,  stood  passively,  in  the  shade  of  the 
room  beyond,  and  looked  in,  still,  toward  the  light, 
to  see  what  next. 

She  saw  Dr.  Gayworthy  turn  from  the  table,  fold 
ing  the  paper  as  he  did  so,  and  stand  with  it  in  his 
hands,  for  two  or  three  minutes,  as  if  in  delibera 
tion,  before  the  fireplace.  Following  his  movement 
with  her  eyes,  she  noticed  against  the  quaint,  carved 
panel  above  the  mantel,  which  formed,  as  she  knew, 
the  sliding  door  to  a  chimney  cupboard  but  little  used, 
and  for  many  years  but  rarely  opened,  her  father's 
keys ;  of  which  one,  holding  the  others  pendent,  occu 
pied  the  keyhole.  Upon  the  shelf  below  lay  a  large 
old  embroidered  letter-case,  the  dim  colors  of  whose 
cover  she  well  remembered  in  the  childish  days  when 
her  most  valued  and  eagerly  sought  privilege  had  been 


PEEKIN^  AND  HAEEIN\  49 

to  see  the  panel  cupboard  opened,  and  be  shown  the 
queer  old  relics  of  the  past  which  had  been  laid  away 
there.  For  years,  as  I  said,  this  cupboard  had  been 
rarely  opened.  For  years  Jane  Gair  had  scarcely 
thought  of  its  existence.  For  all  her  life  to  come  she 
would  scarcely  forget  it,  now. 

Dr.  Gayworthy  stood,  and  seemingly  considered. 
Presently,  he  took  up  the  letter-case,  from  which  the 
faded  string  of  ribbon  hung  unbound,  and  drew  from 
it  a  packet  of  several  sheets  folded  together,  which  he 
held  and  turned,  hesitatingly,  in  his  hand. 

" '  Such  share  and  privilege  as  would  so  fall, '  "  he 
said  slowly  to  himself,  in  a  half  audible  way.  "By 
will,  or  law.  Yes,  that  certainly  secures  it  all.  And 
if  things  should  happen  backward,  and  I  should  change 
my  mind,  it 's  only  this  ^slip  of  paper,  and  the  other 
would  still  remain.  It 's  all  safe,  for  the  present." 

The  doctor  spoke  these  concluding  words  more 
nearly  aloud,  and  briskly,  as  one  settling  a  perplexity ; 
and  changing  his  attitude  from  the  limpness  of  a  mo 
mentary  indecision  to  the  muscular  up-gathering  of 
satisfied  and  assured  purpose,  replaced  the  packet,  slip 
ping  in  behind  it  the  thinly  folded  and  just-written 
sheet,  tied  up  the  case,  and  putting  his  thumb  against 
a  carved  projection  of  the  panel-door,  rolled  it  back, 
and  laid  all  carefully  away  upon  a  shelf  within. 

Jane  Gair  took  advantage  of  the  sliding  of  the  some 
what  ponderous  and  unwilling  door  to  effect  her  escape 
unheard. 

"All  safe  for  the  present,"  repeated  the  doctor 
softly,  as  he  turned  the  lock  and  put  the  keys  in  his 
pocket. 

For  the  present.  Yes.  But  that  paper,  just  writ 
ten,  is  to  lie  there,  unseen,  for  seventeen  years. 

And,  meanwhile,  many  things  will  have  happened. 

Huldah  had  gone,   upon  being  dismissed,    straight 


50  THE  GAY  WORTHY S. 

out,  as  she  had  come  straight  in ;  crossed  the  great 
kitchen,  and  passed  down  into  the  out-room,  to  put 
away  the  few  utensils  she  had  had  about  in  her  bread- 
making. 

Eben  stopped  in  the  great  room.  There  was  a  door 
from  this  which  opened  under  the  halfway  landing  of 
the  staircase  upon  the  passage  running  the  length  of 
these  two  left-hand  rooms  to  the  front  door  of  the 
house.  In  through  the  fan-light  and  side  sashes  poured 
the  full  moonlight.  Eben  set  the  door  softly  ajar,  by 
a  space  the  width  of  his  eye  only,  and  applied  thereto 
that  useful  organ.  "If  there  's  peekin*  and  harkin' 
goin'  on,  I  might  as  well  be  in  for  a  share  of  it, "  he 
said  to  himself. 

There  was  a  moment  or  two  of  utter  silence,  in 
which  Eben  began  almost  to  think  that  there  could  be 
nobody  "harkin',"  after  all,  except  himself;  but  then 
came  the  heavy  rolling  of  the  cupboard  door,  and  a 
figure  passed  across  the  light  and  glided  up  the  stairs. 
Eben  heard  also,  quite  distinctly,  even  above  the  other 
sound,  the  peculiar  rustle  that  was  not  among  the 
maples. 

"The  doctor  's  a  little  deef,  no  doubt,  Mis'  Gair," 
he  said  to  himself  again,  with  an  emphatic  nodding  up 
and  down  of  his  head,  as  he  carefully  reclosed  the  door 
and  dropped  the  latch  noiselessly,  "but  I  kinder  guess 
/  ain't,  and  I  've  heerd  considerable  to-night,  one  way 
an'  another." 

When  Huldah  came  back,  he  said  not  a  word  of  this ; 
but,  human-wise,  must  have  one  upon  the  transaction 
of  the  night,  so  far  as  they  had  both  participated  in  it. 
I  say,  human-wise ;  for,  assert  as  you  will,  curiosity  is 
neither  male  nor  female,  but  belongs  to  the  race.  In 
a  case  like  this,  where  the  two  are  concerned,  let  the 
woman  but  hold  her  peace  for  a  while,  and  see,  then, 
if  the  man  don't  speak! 


PEEKIN^  AND  HAEKIN\  51 

"I  wonder  if  that  air  could  'a'  ben  anything  about 
the  property,  now!  'T  war  n't  a  will,  think,  was  it, 
Huldy?" 

"  Bless  your  benighted  ignorance,  Eben,  no !  Why, 
there  war  n't  half  room  for  a  will.  'T  war  n't  but  a 
half -sheet  o'  paper  writ  on  one  side ;  and  we  put  our 
names  right  in  the  middle  o'  that.  I  've  seen  wills 
afore  now,  Eben.  Twice.  And  I  can  tell  you  it  takes 
an  awful  sight  o'  words  to  make  one.  It 's  jest  like 
the  House  that  Jack  built.  Whenever  they  say  any 
thing  new,  they  have  to  begin  and  say  the  rest  all  over 
ag'in;  so  't  you  'd  think  you  'd  never  get  to  the  end 
on  't.  Besides,  the  doctor  's  made  his  will,  long  ago. 
He  altered  it  over  jest  after  Ben  died.  My  mother 
was  knowin'  to  it.  No,  —  't  war  n't  a  will,  nor  no 
thing  of  the  sort.  You  may  make  your  mind  easy 
about  that.  Most  likely  'twas  only  some  little  church 
business,  'twixt  him  and  the  parson." 

"Well,"  said  Eben  slowly,  leaning  his  elbow  against 
the  kitchen  mantel,  and  availing  himself  of  leverage  so 
obtained  to  scratch  his  head  effectively,  "I  —  don't  — 
know!  maybe  it's  a  —  what  's  name!  A  —  thunder! 
I  know  well  enough  what  the  word  is,  only  I  can't 
fetch  it!  Something  that  's  second  thoughts  to  a  will. 
They  string  on  a  dozen  of  'em,  sometimes.  You  see, 
when  they  get  the  kite  all  framed  and  papered,  they 
begin,  then,  on  the  tail ;  and  they  can  put  on  jest  as 
many  bobs  as  they  like !  " 

"Blessed  be  nothing!  "  ejaculated  Huldah,  lighting 
a  second  candle  for  Eben,  and  turning  away  with  her 
own.  "I  guess  there  won't  have  to  be  many  bobs  to 
my  kite-tail ;  nor  yourn,  neither,  Ebenezer  Hatch !  " 

"Mother!  "  cried  Say,  sitting  up  in  bed  again,  when 
her  mother  returned  to  her  at  last.  "I  know  there  's 
been  an  earthquake  since  you  've  been  downstairs !  I 
heard  it!" 


52  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

Perhaps  there  had,  in  a  way.  But  Mrs.  Gair  only 
said  "nonsense !  "  again,  and  bade  the  child  go  to  sleep ; 
and  cautioned  her  not  to  talk  about  hearing  earthquakes 
to  anybody  else,  for  they  'd  be  sure  to  make  fun  of  her, 
—  especially  Gershom. 

"But  where  's  my  drink  of  water,  mother?  " 
"I  couldn't  get  it.      The  light  went  out.       You 
must  go  to  sleep." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

STACY  LAWTON'S  WALK  HOME. 

STACY  LAWTON  bade  Mrs.  Fairbrother  a  cordial 
good-by  at  the  parsonage  door;  and  even  bestowed  a 
sudden  kiss  upon  Malviny,  who,  glancing  up  in  sur 
prised  inquiry  as  it  descended,  received  it  upon  the 
snubby  end  of  her  little  freckled  nose.  Then,  hastily, 
Stacy  held  out  a  hand  to  Gordon  King. 

"Good-night.  I  'm  so  much  obliged.  No,  indeed, 
you  mustn't  come  a  step  further.  I  shan't  be  a  bit 
afraid,  now."  And,  as  if  she  were  very  honestly  in 
earnest,  she  turned  away  quickly,  before  the  young 
minister  could  reply,  and  took  the  start  of  him,  reso 
lutely,  up  the  road.  How  much  of  this  haste  and  de 
termination  might  have  been  accounted  for  by  a  glimpse 
she  got  of  Newell  Gibson  coming  around  the  corner  of 
the  cross-road  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  and  the  per 
ception  that  his  approach  might  presently  do  away  with 
the  necessity  for  any  persistence  on  the  minister's  part, 
I  really  do  not  know,  and  being  simple-minded  and 
charitable  myself,  will  not  attempt  to  conjecture ;  but 
of  course,  Gordon  King  did  persist,  and  follow  and 
join  the  self-willed  damsel,  whose  trim  little  figure 
moved  off  so  prettily  and  positively  before  him,  in  the 
moonlight,  over  the  long,  steep  slope. 

Newell  Gibson  knew  better  than  to  overtake  them. 
Besides,  he  had  his  own  thoughts  to-night,  that  lin 
gered  pleasantly  around  the  little  brown  house  whence 
he  had  just  come,  down  there  in  the  cross-road  under 
the  hill.  He,  too,  had  been  to  see  somebody  home. 

"You  needn't  have  come,"  said  Stacy  to  Gordon 


54  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

Kifig,  as  he  reached  her  side.  "It 's  as  bright  as 
day.  Doesn't  the  moonlight  make  everything  look 
beautiful  ?  "  And  she  swung  by  the  strings,  as  she 
spoke,  her  muslin  cape-bonnet,  needless  since  the  sum 
mer  sun  went  down,  and  turned  her  bright  face  toward 
him,  above  which  the  night-gleam  touched  and  crowned 
the  full,  graceful  folds  of  her  uncovered  hair.  Truly, 
he  thought  so,  then. 

"It's  a  glorious  night,"  he  answered.  "It  seems 
a  wonder  that  we  can  shut  our  doors,  or  our  eyes,  at 
all." 

"I  like  moonlight,"  said  Stacy.  "But  the  stars 
seem  awful  when  the  sky  is  full  of  them.  I  remember 
the  first  'time  I  ever  saw  them  so.  I  was  so  fright 
ened.  It  was  when  I  was  a  very  little  girl,  and 
grandma  took  me  out  one  night  to  an  evening  meeting. 
I  had  never  been  kept  up  so  late  before ;  and,  coming 
home,  they  blazed  down,  so  bright  and  thick!  I 
thought  the  Day  of  Judgment  was  come." 

That  word  of  Stacy's  changed  the  tone  between 
them.  It  pierced  the  surface,  and  went  down,  how 
ever  heedlessly,  into  the  deeps  that  lay  beneath. 

Gordon  King  believed  in  his  solemn  office,  and  in 
the  things  it  handled.  He  gave  no  look  at  the  pretty 
face,  for  a  moment.  He  felt  a  soul  beside  him  that 
had  trembled  at  the  Judgment. 

"You  are  not  afraid  in  the  starlight,  now?  "  This 
he  said  inquiringly,  meaningly,  after  the  little  pause 
wherein  the  thought-current  of  each  had  shifted. 

They  stood,  at  this  moment,  on  the  brow  of  the 
long  hill.  They  stopped  involuntarily.  Below  lay 
such  a  scene  as  lies,  I  suppose,  hardly  anywhere,  out 
of  New  England.  Among  abrupt  and  picturesque 
heights,  whose  nearer  wooded  slopes  were  thinned  and 
smoothed  by  cultivation,  yet  whose  far  horizon  lines 
bristled  everywhere  with  piny  forests,  untouched,  un- 


STACY  LAWTON'S  WALK  HOME.  65 

thrid ;  set  in  the  centre  of  the  great  landscape,  —  held 
so  in  the  scoop  of  the  hills  as  almost  in  the  hollow  of 
an  Almighty  Hand,  —  the  few  white  farmhouses  that 
made  up  this  little  neighborhood  in  which  was  Stacy's 
home  clustered  peacefully,  and  lay  still  in  the  moon 
light  around  Gibson's  Pond.  So  the  country  people 
had  christened,  in  their  homely,  practical  fashion,  a 
great,  glorious  sheet  of  water  that  flashed  up,  now,  its 
flood  of  silver,  meeting  and  overbrooded  by  the  more 
ethereal  firmamental  flood  of  light,  that  poured  itself 
down,  and  rolled  and  gathered,  as  it  were,  in  a  huge 
chalice,  against  these  steeps  that  held  it  in.  A  lake, 
which  —  but  that  Hilbury  Pond  was  larger,  and  Deep- 
water  larger  yet,  and  that  every  village,  almost,  had 
one,  greater  or  less,  of  its  own,  between  this  and  the 
low  lands  of  the  seacoast,  where  the  great  cities 
buzzed  and  grew  —  might  have  had  a  name  of  music 
and  grandeur,  and  held  itself  serenely  here,  in  a  roy 
alty  of  beauty,  to  touch  the  border  of  whose  robe  men 
might  make  weary  pilgrimage. 

"Yes,"  said  Stacy  falteringly,  as  they  looked  down 
on  this  together,  "I  am  afraid.  I  am  not  good." 

If  there  were  art  in  this,  it  was  the  instinctive  art 
whereby  one  soul  draws  itself  toward  the  recognized 
and  higher  sphere  of  another.  The  child  bethought 
herself  of  her  soul  at  that  moment.  When  the  heart 
is  stirred,  if  it  lie  at  any  depth  at  all,  that  which 
sleeps  beneath  must  feel  the  thrill.  She  believed  that 
he  who  stood  beside  her  in  this  glory  of  the  summer 
night  had  a  title  to  come  closer  to  the  spirit  of  it  all 
than  she.  In  the  one  great  overshadowing  beauty  she 
forgot,  for  a  moment,  the  little  coquetries  of  her  own. 

Now  that  it  has  come  to  this,  you,  Rebecca,  —  say 
ing,  "Thy  will  be  done,"  in  your  chamber,  that  is 
like  a  shrine  for  the  purity  of  the  thought  and  act  it 
witnesses,  and  only  half  glancing,  in  your  secret  maid- 


56  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

enly  soul,  at  what  might  befall,  to  make  that  Will 
seem  earthly -bitter,  —  may  school  and  strengthen  your 
self  as  you  can,  to  bear  and  to  do  without.  Since 
Adam  followed  his  erring  wife  out  of  Paradise,  — 
dearer  to  him,  doubtless,  then  when  he  began  to  have 
pity  for  and  patience  with  her,  than  when  she  came  to 
him,  faultless,  from  the  hand  of  God,  —  there  has  been 
more  hope,  as  to  the  love  of  man,  for  the  sinning  little 
Eves  with  the  taste  and  perfume  of  the  world's  apple 
yet  clinging  to  their  lips,  than  for  such  as  you.  You 
are  too  far  above  him  in  your  saintliness.  You,  who 
do  not  tremble  at  the  stars,  but  who  bend  ever,  in  a 
sweet  and  holy  awe,  before  their  Maker,  — who  need 
no  more  the  tears  of  a  passionate  penitence,  because, 
in  your  noiseless  life,  you  do  daily  the  work  that  is 
given,  and  feed  daily  the  patience  that  forgives  your 
shortcomings,  — you  may  not  rival  the  spiritual,  any 
more  than  the  earthly  witcheries  of  the  pretty  unre- 
generate,  who  needs  yet  something  done  for  her;  who 
leans  toward  a  human  help ;  who  whispers  with  a  new 
born  anxiety  of  her  soul  and  of  her  sins. 

Besides,  any  sort  of  professional  dealing  of  man 
toward  woman,  where  there  is  beforehand  the  faintest 
incipience  of  tender  thought,  is  tolerably  sure  to  do 
the  business  for  them  both.  There  is  a  sentiment  in 
the  one  which  loves  to  approach,  shyly,  the  mystery  of 
the  other's  strength  and  wisdom;  there  is  a  pride  and 
chivalry  in  the  other  which  is  stirred  pleasantly  in  the 
consciousness  of  extending  help  or  protection.  It  is 
the  very  soul  of  the  whole  relation  between  the  two. 

"I  think  you  will  be,"  said  Gordon  King  pres 
ently,  with  a  gentleness ;  and  the  thought  of  what  she 
might  be  —  of  what  he  might  see  her,  perhaps  help 
her,  to  become  —  was  more  to  him  than  all  the  beau 
tiful  attainment  elsewhere.  It  was  only  human.  One 
loves  better  the  slip  of  green  one  cherishes  in  the  root- 


STACY  LAWTON'S  WALK  HOME.  57 

ing,  than  the  fair,  strong,  perfect  plant  that  flowers 
already  without  one's  help. 

So  they  walked  on  together,  down  the  hill,  in  that 
light  of  sky  and  water.  Two  or  three  minutes  more 
brought  them  to  Squire  Lawton's  gateway. 

"I  think  you  will  be,"  repeated  Gordon  King,  as 
their  hands  met  upon  the  latch,  and  he  held  his  com 
panion's  for  an  instant,  with  a  friendly  clasp. 

And  Stacy  thought,  very  honestly,  that  she  would. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    SECRET    AT    THE    HARTSHORNES*. 

HUMAN  histories  and  events  go  by  periods  and  con 
junctures,  as  well  as  the  great  planetary  forces  and 
systems.  All  are  under  one  like  law.  This  night  of 
the  27th  of  June,  which  passed  so  seemingly  unmarked, 
save  by  a  simple  social  gathering,  over  the  little  town 
of  Hilbury,  and  into  the  lives  that  revolved  together, 
working  out  this  story  that  I  write,  was  a  focus  where- 
from  radiated  much.  Hereafter,  years  may  be  missed 
in  the  narration ;  to  -  night,  hardly  a  moment  or  a 
thought. 

Mrs.  Hartshorne  went  home  early  from  the  party; 
took  "French  leave,"  as  she  called  it,  making  more 
bustle  in  doing  so,  however,  through  explaining  to 
every  member  of  the  family  the  why,  than  could  possi 
bly  have  been  accomplished  in  any  other  manner.  But, 
underneath  the  bustle,  her  good  heart  was  anxious, 
troubled.  She  said  that  "Gabe  would  be  tired  after 
his  day's  sail,  and  she  would  n't  wait  to  make  him 
come  for  her;"  that  "father  had  a  headache,  which 
was  why  she  came  alone;"  she  knew,  false-lipped  wo 
man  that  she  was,  that  Gabriel  had  come  back  from 
Deepwater  before  she  left  her  home,  no  more  tired 
than  a  hearty  young  New  Englander  should  be  after  a 
day's  toil  or  frolic,  and  with  no  thought  but  to  dress 
in  his  best  and  go  to  the  strawberry  party.  But  a 
shadow  that  was  coming  over  their  simple  home  —  a 
fearful  something  which  they  did  not  name,  as  yet, 
even  to  each  other  —  lifted  its  apparitional  finger,  and 
stayed  them  in  this,  as  in  many  another  hope  and  plan 


THE  SECRET  AT  THE  HARTSHORN  ES\       59 

to  come.  There  was  a  secret  at  the  Hartshornes' ;  a 
secret  surmised,  as  yet,  by  none  but  mother  and  son ; 
but  which  should  come  to  be  more  than  surmise  with 
all  the  little  world  about  them,  as  such  things  do,  long 
before  they  would  acknowledge  in  words,  between  them 
selves,  the  terrible  truth. 

There  was  something  queer  about  old  Mr.  Harts- 
home.  He  took  strange  fancies  now  and  then.  He 
did  things  in  odd  ways,  and  at  odd  times. 

"  Gabriel, "  his  mother  had  said,  as  the  young  man 
came  down  from  his  little  corner  bedroom  that  looked 
out  toward  the  Gayworthy  farm,  and  whence  he  could 
see  the  flutter  of  a  white  curtain  at  one  particular 
window  of  the  doctor's  mansion,  — he  looked  bright 
and  handsome,  to-night,  in  his  new,  dark-blue  coat, 
and  with  the  yellow-brown  waves  tossed  back  above  the 
broad  brow  and  beaming  blue  eyes,  —  "Gabriel,  you 
don't  care  no  great  about  the  party  to-night,  I  sup 
pose  ?  " 

"Well,  —  no ;  nothing  particular.  Why  ?  "  returned 
Gabriel,  forcing  down  heart  and  conscience  with  one 
great  gulp,  and  holding  them  there  with  this  lie  that 
he  laid  upon  them. 

"Because,  father  's  taken  a  notion  that  he  won't 
go ;  he  says  he  must  walk  clear  over  to  the  five- acre 
lot,  to  mow  a  piece  round  a  turkey-hen  that 's  settin' 
there,  for  fear  the  men  should  come  foul  of  her  in  the 
mornin' ;  an'  I  donno  how,  exactly,  to  leave  him  to  go 
alone.  It 's  kinder  pokerish  over  there,  and  he  might 
cut  himself,  —  or  something. " 

"Well,  — I'll  go  with  him,"  said  Gabriel,  slowly 
turning  to  go  upstairs  again  and  take  off  the  best  suit. 
The  cloud  that  came  over  his  face  —  the  sudden  quench 
in  the  beaming  blue  eye  —  told  nothing  to  his  mother 
that  her  own  heart  did  not  answer  to  and  explain. 

And  Gabriel  inquired  curiously  after  the  turkey's 


60  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

nest,  and  "  took  a  notion  "  in  his  turn,  to  walk  over 
with  his  father  to  the  five-acre  lot,  in  the  low  sun 
light,  and  fibbed  again  when  he  said  he  "didn't  feel 
much  like  rigging  up  for  a  party ;  "  which  had  been 
true  but  for  the  last  five  minutes,  since  he  unrigged, 
and  went  his  way,  bearing  the  glittering  scythe  upon 
his  shoulder,  as  any  martyr  might  bear  the  weapon  of 
his  sacrifice ;  and  Mrs.  Hartshorne  rendered  herself  at 
the  tea-party  as  we  have  seen;  and  Joanna  had  hard, 
disappointed,  bitter,  mistaken  thoughts,  and  carried 
,  them  away  to  bed  with  her,  and  cried  over  them,  as 
she  had  promised  herself;  and  of  all  possible  things, 
never  dreamed  in  her  imaginings  of  this,  that  Gabriel 
might  haply  be  somehow  as  compulsorily  and  pain 
fully  disappointed  as  she.  The  best  reasons  for  hu 
man  conduct  are  often,  alas!  precisely  those  which 
can  never  be  given  to  those  who  demand  of  us  the  why. 
And  so  a  story  of  misconception,  which  should  not, 
for  long,  be  made  quite  clear,  began  between  these 
two.  So  the  threads  of  these  lives,  which  seemed 
about  to  be  caught  together  in  a  web  of  joy,  were  rav 
eled  apart  for  a  while,  and  floated  away  from  each 
other,  reaching  and  feeling  —  unfastened  thrums  — 
into  a  hopeless  void. 

It  was  a  good  two  hours  before  Gabriel  Hartshorne 
was  free  of  his  father.  The  turkey's  nest  was  islanded 
with  a  fragrant  swath, — the  "heft"  of  the  crop 
noted  and  rejoiced  over,  — ;  the  tons  of  good  timothy 
and  clover  calculated,  —  a  circuit  taken,  —  in  a 
dreamy  loiter  by  the  old  man,  in  a  fever  of  impatience 
by  the  young  one,  —  around  by  the  brook,  and  up 
through  the  long  meadow;  and  then  there  was  a  delay 
at  the  barn,  —  scythes  looked  to  for  the  morrow ;  Ga 
briel  sent  down  the  lane,  by  a  sudden  thought,  to  see 
if  the  bars  were  up  at  the  end;  and,  last  of  all,  after 
they  had  fairly  reached  the  house  again,  a  fidget  about 


THE  SECRET  AT  THE  HARTSHORNES'.       61 

the  lantern  they  had  lighted  for  a  minute  in  the  tool 
room,  and  Gabriel  must  go  back  to  the  barn  and  exam 
ine,  lest  by  chance  there  might  be  any  sparks  about. 

By  the  time  all  this  was  over  and  his  father  com 
posed  to  the  smoking  of  his  evening  pipe,  the  young 
man  was  tired, —  tired  in  body  and  in  spirit.  Be 
sides,  the  shoes  he  had  blackened  so  nicely  were  all 
unpolished  and  dusty,  now;  his  clean  wristbands 
crumpled;  the  feeling  of  freshness  and  fitness  gone 
beyond  possibility  of  renewal  by  the  changing  of  a 
coat ;  the  hour  was  late,  according  to  their  primitive 
customs,  and  presently,  deciding  all  question  that  he 
might  else  have  had,  he  saw  from  the  front  gate  where 
he  stood  and  leaned,  thinking  gloomily,  his  mother's 
stout,  comfortable  figure  moving  homeward  in  the 
mingled  light  of  sunset  and  moonrise,  down  the  hill. 

"Well,  Gabriel.      How  's  father?  " 

"Inside,  smoking  his  pipe." 

"You  look  tired.      Where  've  you  been?  " 

"All  round  the  lot.  He  's  been  pretty  res'less. 
How  was  the  party  ?  " 

"Elegant.  I  wish  you  'd  a-been  there.  Mis' 
Gair  was  as  fine  as  a  fiddle ;  and  as  to  that  Joann, 
she  does  beat  all  for  carry  in*  on.  I  never  see  a  girl 
in  such  spirits  as  she  was  to-night.  It  kinder  fright 
ens  me,  too,  when  young  folks  begin  so.  They  '11 
take  such  a  lot  o'  soberin'  down.  I  was  pretty  chip 
per  myself  when  I  was  her  age." 

Good  Mrs.  Hartshorne  ended  with  a  sigh.  In  its 
fleeting  breath  exhaled  a  subtile  distillation  of  many  a 
sorrow  that  had  come  upon  her  since  the  "  chipper  " 
days.  There  were  slabs  in  the  churchyard  to  tell  of 
some;  there  were  care  and  labor  lines  on  face  and 
hands,  that  might  hint  of  others ;  there  was  something 
in  the  very  breaking  off  of  her  report  of  the  just  past 
festivities,  and  the  quickening  of  her  footsteps  toward 


62  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

the  house,  that  had  to  do,  as  Gabriel  knew,  with  an 
unspoken  weight  that  lay  upon  her  now. 

He  followed  his  mother  into  the  house,  asking  no 
more  questions. 

Joanna  had  been  gay,  to-night,  then.  She  had 
missed  nothing  from  her  pleasure.  Well ! 

From  the  corner  bedroom  he  could  see  the  white 
curtain  still  in  the  moonlight.  There  came  a  light 
that  glimmered  behind  it,  for  a  little  while,  and  then 
went  suddenly  out,  as  something  that  flared  wildly  for 
an  instant,  and  quenched  coldly,  also,  in  his  own 
heart.  And  night  and  stillness  lay  between  the  two 
homes. 

O  God !  who  holdest  all  lives  in  thine  own  bosom, 
wherein  all  are  quickened  and  commune  together! 
what  is  this  space,  this  circumstance,  which  Thou  hast 
made,  that  can  —  ever  so  little  of  it  —  part  them  so ; 
that  can  keep  them  so  unwistful  of  each  other,  even 
in  Thee  ? 

Sunday  came.  The  old  meeting-house  was  full  of 
its  Sabbath  fragrance.  Do  you  know  what  I  mean? 
Did  you  ever  sit  —  a  great  while  ago  it  must  have 
been,  to  be  sure  —  in  one  of  those  family  inclosures 
in  an  old-fashioned  country  church,  whose  space  is 
railed  off  in  roomy  squares,  and  smell  the  mingled  in 
cense  that  goes  up,  on  a  summer  day,  with  the  prayers 
and  praises  ?  The  tender  aroma  of  fresh  flowers,  held 
here  and  there  in  a  hand  that  has  gathered  them  just 
the  last  thing  at  home,  or  on  the  way;  the  odor  of 
aromatics,  — of  peppermints,  perhaps,  or  nibbled 
cloves;  the  lavender  and  musk  that  breathe  faintly 
forth  from  the  best  laces,  muslins,  and  ribbons ;  to  say 
nothing  of  whiffs,  now  and  then,  that  betray  spice 
cake  and  cimbals  and  sage-cheese,  stowed  away  care 
fully  in  sanctuary  cupboards,  under  the  hinge-seats, 
until  the  "nooning"?  Whatever  you  may  think, 


THE  SECRET  AT  THE  HARTSHORNE&.       63 

there  was  nothing  disagreeable  about  it,  —  nothing 
even  of  coarseness  or  desecration ;  to  long-accustomed 
nostrils,  it  was  the  very  atmosphere  of  the  Lord's 
Day;  and  the  life-long,  subtile  association  helped  the 
people,  doubtless,  even  in  their  prayers. 

Little  Sarah  Gair  found  it  all  very  delightful,  con 
trasted  with  city  church-going,  where  people  shove 
themselves  into  narrow  crannies,  and  sit  with  their 
knees  against  one  board  and  their  backs  against  an 
other,  —  stuck  in  rows,  like  knives  in  a  knifebox,  — 
compressing  the  body,  by  way  of  expanding  the  soul. 
There  was  nothing  Say  liked  better  than  to  go  to 
meeting  in  Hilbury;  to  sit  in  the  corner,  on  the  broad 
window- seat  that  came  in  so  as  to  form  a  commodious 
place  for  two,  and  where  Gershom  was  usually  her 
companion ;  to  listen  to  the  full-voiced  village  choir, 
and  look  up  with  a  sort  of  childish  awe  at  the  row  of 
men  and  maidens  who  filled  the  "  singing- seats, "  and 
bore  part  in  the  solemn  service  of  praise;  to  glance 
from  group  to  group  of  the  crowded  congregation,  and, 
when  tired  of  bonnets  and  faces  within,  to  turn  eyes 
and  thoughts  outward,  where  the  stone  slabs  were 
planted  thickly,  marking  the  more  solemn  congregation 
of  the  dead;  to  walk  round,  quietly,  from  pew  to  pew 
in  the  nooning,  or  to  go  with  Aunt  Rebecca  into  the 
churchyard,  and  read  the  names,  — it  didn't  seem  a 
sad,  but  rather  a  pleasant  and  beautiful  thing,  to  be 
lying  there,  where  neighbors  and  friends  came  up  and 
walked  weekly,  and  talked  gently,  among  the  green 
graves,  — or  to  go  with  Aunt  Joanna  to  a  neighbor's 
house,  and  eat  cimbals,  and  hear  the  great  girls  talk, 
which  was  pretty  much  all  the  little  girls  could  do  on 
Sunday ;  and  as  for  the  incense  we  were  speaking  of, 
Say  always  complained  to  her  mother,  when  she  got 
back  to  Selport,  that  it  "didn't  ever  smell  like  Sun 
day  there !  " 


64  THE  GAY  WORTHY  S. 

These  were  her  impressions.  Quiet  Aunt  Rebecca, 
—  merry  Aunt  Joanna,  —  pretty  Stacy  Lawton,  who 
looked  unwontedly  demure  to-day,  —  stout,  good-na 
tured  Mrs.  Hartshorne,  and  Gabriel,  who,  as  first 
tenor,  stood  next,  in  the  singing-seats,  to  Joanna, 
leading  the  treble,  —  with  scores  of  others,  whose  hid 
den  life  it  does  not  come  within  our  especial  province 
to  trace,  — had  theirs. 

Gabriel  came  late  into  the  gallery.  He  was  shy  of 
meeting  Joanna;  fearful  of  the  resentment  she  might 
show  him  for  his  apparent  slight.  He  encountered 
something  worse  than  resentment,  —  an  utter  uncon 
cern.  Joanna  was  as  blooming  to-day  in  her  "cot 
tage-straw  "  with  its  blue  ribbons,  —  her  eye  was  as 
clear,  her  cheek  was  as  fresh,  as  if  that  "cry  "  of  the 
other  night  had  never  been.  Her  shoulder  turned  not 
a  hair's  breadth  from  the  line  of  his,  as  they  stood 
side  by  side  in  the  opening  hymn.  Her  hand  shrunk 
with  no  disdain  from  the  touch  that  met  it  for  an  in 
stant,  as  they  turned  the  pages  of  their  books  to  find 
the  tune.  She  settled  a  little,  comfortably,  into  the 
corner  of  her  seat  which  the  narrow  passage  separated 
from  his,  when  the  service  began,  and  the  cottage- 
bonnet  just  shaded  her  face  from  his  sight.  After 
service,  her  "how-dye-do,  Mr.  Hartshorne,"  in  answer 
to  his  greeting,  was  to  the  last  degree  insouciante ; 
and  then,  just  as  he  was  about  to  say  something  more, 
she  caught  her  name  whispered  from  behind,  and  turn 
ing  promptly,  yet  without  any  undue  quickness,  re 
sponded  to  some  proposition  or  remark,  and  was  drawn 
away  among  the  girls,  and  down  the  left-hand  stair 
case,  which  was  the  feminine  exit. 

She  went,  with  half  a  dozen  of  them,  down  the  hill 
from  the  meeting-house,  between  the  rows  of  poplars, 
to  Deacon  Whittaker's;  the  deacon's  daughter,  Carrie, 
leading  the  way.  Gabriel  stood  among  a  group  of 
young  men  at  the  church-door,  and  saw  them  pass. 


THE  SECEET  AT  THE  HARTSHORNES*.   65 

Presently,  they  disappeared  round  the  corner  of  the 
large,  old,  unpainted  house,  whose  great,  square,  open 
porch  gave,  not  upon  the  road,  but  upon  the  smooth, 
sloping  grass-plot  at  the  side.  Here,  buzzing  and  flut 
tering,  as  bees  and  maidens  alone  know  how,  they 
clustered  and  chatted,  while  baskets  were  opened  and 
the  simple  nooning  meal,  that  needed  intervention  of 
neither  knife  nor  fork,  was  eaten. 

"Where  's  Stacy  Lawton?  "  asked  somebody. 

"I  can't  tell  you  that,  but  I  can  tell  you  one  thing, 
girls,"  said  Joanna  Gayworthy.  "And  before  it  hap 
pens,  too.  We're  in  for  a  revival;  and  Stacy  Law- 
ton  's  going  to  lead  off.  She  's  getting  impressions, 
YOU  may  depend  upon  it.  And  some  others,  too,  per 
haps.  You  '11  see  'em  in  the  anxious-seats,  before 
long.  The  parson  ought  to  have  left  that  text  for 
Gordon  King,  though." 

"  0  Joanna,  how  can  you  ?  "  the  others  exclaimed, 
and  laughed.  The  morning  sermon  had  been  from  the 
words,  "Give  me  thine  heart." 

"Well,  I  can't  help  it,  when  I  see  how  things  go 
on.  Religion  's  so  interesting  when  a  handsome  young 
man  comes  and  talks  about  it.  Why,  poor  Mr.  Fair- 
brother  might  have  preached  his  cheek  bones  through, 
and  his  eyes  into  hollows  till  they  came  out  at  the 
back  of  his  head,  and  nobody  would  have  been  the  least 
bit  anxious.  But  those  waving  locks !  and  those  heav 
enly  eyes !  and  '  sech  a  figger !  '  as  Sabiah  Millet  says ! 
I  'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  the  sinners  can  be  made 
of,  if  they  don't  come  under  conviction !  " 

While  Joanna  spoke,  the  three  or  four  young  men, 
of  whom  Gabriel  Hartshorne  was  one,  came  into  the 
door-yard,  and  passed  the  porch,  going  toward  the 
well,  which,  with  its  long  sweep  and  wide  curb,  occu 
pied  a  central  position  in  the  space  between  house  and 
garden,  not  so  far  from  the  porch  as  to  be  beyond  con- 


66  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

versational  distance.  There  were  almost  always  girls 
in  the  porch,  and  young  men  about  the  well,  in  these 
summer  Sunday  noons.  Joanna,  standing  upon  the 
step,  facing  inward,  neither  paused  nor  turned,  but 
talked  on  recklessly,  as  they  went  by. 

"I  never  heard  anybody  run  on  as  you  do!  "  cried 
Eunice  Gibson.  "It  don't  make  any  difference  what 
it  's  about.  It  was  just  so  at  your  party  the  other 
night.  How  you  did  train!  You  made  fun  of  every 
thing  that  came  up !  " 

"Yes;  Satan  entered  into  me.  And  I  don't  believe 
he  's  gone  out  yet.  So  don't  set  me  .going.  I  should 
like  to  be  a  little  proper  on  Sunday.  Here  comes 
Mrs.  Prouty.  Her  umbrella  's  always  up.  She  's 
never  caught  in  a  shower." 

"What  do  you  mean?-" 

"Why,  don't  she  always  make  you  feel  as  if  you 
were  out  in  the  rain,  and  she  standing  under  cover, 
chuckling?  She  does  me.  Her  work's  always  so 
dreadfully  sure  to  be  done  up,  whether  it 's  cheeses  or 
salvation.  She  is  not  as  other  women  are.  There  's 
never  anything  left  over  on  a  Saturday  night  with  her. 
Don't  you  see  how  her  mouth  's  primmed  up?  That 's 
as  much  as  to  say  the  washing  and  mending  and  churn 
ing  and  cleaning  and  baking  are  all  through  with,  up 
to  the  minute,  and  her  soul  seen  to,  besides.  Mrs. 
Prouty!  Where's  Eliza?  We're  going  down  the 
Brook  Road,  presently,  for  a  little  walk." 

"Eliza  stayed  in.  She  's  preparing  herself  for  her 
Sunday-school  class, "  replied  Mrs.  Prouty  precisely, 
and  with  a  tone  of  subdued  self-gratulation.  Her 
daughter,  also,  was  not  as  other  people's  daughters 
were. 

"Wasn't  that  Christian  of  me.  to  give  her  such  a 
chance?  See  how  much  good  it's  done  her,"  whis 
pered  Joanna  to  Eunice,  as  Mrs.  Prouty  passed  them, 


THE  SECRET  AT  THE  HARTSHORNE&.       67 

and  went  in.  "We  're  such  terrible  creatures,  you 
know,  talking  and  laughing  over  our  luncheon,  and 
going  to  walk.  And  it 's  such  a  satisfaction  to  her  to 
see  it!  I  don't  know  what  some  saints  would  do  if 
there  wasn't  a  world  round  them  lying  in  wicked 
ness!" 

"  Hush !   there  she  is  at  the  window !  " 

Mrs.  Prouty  had  entered  the  deaconess'  sitting- 
room,  and  taken  a  position  where  she  could  converse 
directly  with  that  lady,  and  if  occasion  offered,  send  a 
few  words  also,  over  her  shoulder,  at  the  group  upon 
the  porch. 

In  a  minute  or  two  the  side-fire  began. 

"Yes,  it  was  a  very  feeling  discourse;  and  I  do 
hope  we  shall  see  some  fruits  of  it.  But  it  seems 
pretty  hard  to  make  any  impression  on  our  young  folks, 
somehow.  It 's  in  at  one  ear  and  out  at  the  other, 
with  most  of  'em." 

"Might  as  well  be  so,  perhaps,  as  in  at  the  ear  and 
out  at  the  mouth, "  commented  Joanna,  in  an  under 
tone. 

"I  'm  afraid  there  's  some  mischeevous  influence, 
that  undooes  it  all,"  continued  Mrs.  Prouty  with  a 
sigh. 

"I  know  there  is;  but  it  isn't  the  sort  you  mean. 
Come,  girls,  let 's  go  and  have  our  walk.  I  shall  say 
something  out  loud,  presently,  if  we  stay  here." 

"I  can't  bear,"  continued  Joanna,  as  the  little 
party  prepared  to  move,  at  her  suggestion,  "to  be  put 
into  a  dark  closet  and  have  somebody  continually  com 
ing  to  look  in  and  ask  me  if  I  'm  sorry  yet.  I  always 
feel  like  saying,  as  I  did  to  my  mother  once,  when  I 
was  a  little  girl:  'When  I  horry,  I  let  oo  know!  '  " 

" But  then, "  said  one  of  the  group  timidly,  "I  don't 
think  we  ought  to  make  fun  of  such  things." 

"Nor  I,  neither,  Abby, "  answered  Joanna  quickly, 


68  THE  GAYWOBTHYS. 

and  with  a  changed  manner.  "I  don't  make  fun  of 
the  things ;  it 's  only  the  way  people  behave  about 
them.  It  is  n't  real.  It  isn't  natural.  When  folks 
really  do  give  their  hearts,  whether  it 's  to  God  or  a 
fellow-creature,  it  is  n't  a  thing,  I  think,  that  they  run 
round  telling  about.  There  's  only  one  concerned  to 
know  anything  about  it." 

This  sudden  shifting  to  earnest,  and  of  such  outright 
sort,  threw  an  astonished  silence,  for  a  moment,  over 
the  company.  The  girls  didn't  always  know  just  how 
to  take  Joanna  Gayworthy. 

Whether  the  allusion  to  giving  of  hearts,  or  the  apv 
proach  of  the  young  men,  who  now  came  up  from  be 
hind,  as  if  to  join  them,  suggested  the  next  remark  or 
not,  it  came,  with  an  unintentional  "by  the  way, "  that 
made  Joanna  secretly  wince. 

"Why  was  n't  Gabriel  Hartshorne  at  your  house  the 
other  night  ?  " 

"Sure  enough!      I  don't  know.      I  '11  ask  him." 

The  quick,  fine,  feminine  artifice  of  this,  Gabriel, 
catching  the  words,  could  not  discern.  He  took  them 
at  their  surface  meaning,  and  verily  believed  that  she 
had  never  thought  to  miss  him,  or  to  wonder  why  he 
had  not  come.  She,  who  had  kept  the  whole  company 
merry !  Man-like,  he  turned  off  in  a  clumsy  huff,  and 
walked  beside  Eunice  Gibson. 

She  put  the  question. 

"I  came  home  late  from  Deepwater, "  he  answered; 
"and  afterwards,  I  was  wanted,  — at  home." 

"A  good  plan,  to  stay  where  he  was  sure  of  that," 
whispered  Joanna,  as  she  moved  forward  with  her  com 
panion.  This  was  the  word  too  much,  which  women 
are  pretty  sure  to  say  when  they  try  to  cover  up  with 
words  their  true  feelings.  She  bit  her  lip  when  she 
had  spoken  it.  If  Gabriel  had  not  been  already  set 
off  with  such  an  impetus  upon  the  wrong  track,  it  might 


THE  SECRET  AT  THE  HAETSHOENES\       69 

have  gone  far  to  guide  him  upon  the  right  one.  But 
men  always  do  rush  away  headlong,  at  the  first  word; 
and  another,  sent  after,  drives  them  forward,  rather 
than  brings  them  back.  There  's  where  we  have  ad 
vantage  of  them. 

The  effervescence  of  Joanna's  sauciness  was  over, 
however.  She  subsiding,  the  little  party  walked,  in 
a  new  mood  of  quietness,  tinged,  perhaps,  with  a  slight, 
half-recognized  constraint,  onward,  down  the  Brook 
Road ;  paused  a  moment  or  two,  upon  the  narrow  bridge, 
listening  to  the  Sunday  song  of  the  busy  waters ;  and 
then,  like  the  "King  of  France  with  twenty  thousand 
men,"  turned,  at  her  lead,  and  "marched  up  again." 
An  evolution  which,  to  them,  as  to  the  king  in  the  old 
rhyme,  had,  doubtless,  its  own  meaning. 

With  two  of  the  number  it  had,  at  any  rate,  its  own 
result. 

A  word,  or  the  want  of  a  word,  is  a  little  thing ; 
but  into  the  momentary  wound  or  chasm,  so  made  or 
left,  throng  circumstances;  these  thrust  wider  and 
wider  asunder,  till  the  whole  round  bulk  of  the  world 
may  lie  between  two  lives. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE    DAIRY    FARM. 

"THE  world  is  so  full  of  other  folks,"  said  Joanna 
wearily. 

She  was  sitting  by  the  pleasa-nt  garden-window  in 
Rebecca's  room.  A  great  cherry-tree,  full  of  fruit 
and  birds,  tossed  its  wide  arms  up  against  the  house- 
front,  and  almost  grew  in  at  every  opening.  She  looked 
out  into  its  green  intricacies  and  watched  the  robins, 
that  feasted  fearlessly,  even  when  she  reached  a  hand 
to  the ,  hither  bough,  and  gathered,  half  absently,  for 
herself,  a  dinner  or  two  out  of  their  crimson  store. 

Downstairs,  the  house  was  shaded,  open,  clean,  and 
cool,  from  end  to  end.  The  early  country  dinner  was 
over,  and  cleared  away.  Huldah  was  turning  cheeses 
in  the  cheese-room.  Mrs.  Vorse  was  taking  her  after- 
dinner  nap.  Say  and  Gershom  were  down  in  the  gar 
den,  on  a  great  rock,  over  which  a  plum-tree  hung. 
Mrs.  Gair  had  been  gone  to  Selport  a  week  or  more. 
Say  was  left  there  with  her  aunts,  until  September. 
A  box  of  clothing,  with  books  and  toys,  had  come  up 
by  the  stage  the  night  before.  Among  the  rest  was 
that  unfailing  childish  delight,  "Swiss  Family  Robin 
son;"  and  for  Gershom,  a  present  from  thoughtful 
Aunt  Jane,  a  copy  of  Dana's  "Two  Years  before  the 
Mast."  These  books,  and  Say's  life-size  linen  baby, 
kept  the  children  abundant  company  down  there  on  the 
great,  green-canopied,  granite  divan. 

There  had  been  question,  among  the  sisters,  of 
plans  for  the  remainder  of  the  day.  Mrs.  Prue  had 
said  that  somebody  ought  to  go  and  see  Mrs.  Rock- 


THE  DAIRY  FARM.  71 

wood.  Mrs.  Prue  rarely  paid  visits.  "Somebody" 
meant  the  girls,  of  course,  who  were  responsible  for 
the  social  department  in  family  affairs.  Dutiful, 
compliant  Rebecca  repeated  the  suggestion,  upstairs. 

"We  ought  to  go  and  see  Mrs.  Rockwood,  Joanna." 

"Dear  me!  and  her  third  boy!  I  can't.  I  never 
know  what  to  say  to  people  in  affliction.  Besides,  we 
should  have  to  admire  the  baby.  People  are  always 
astonished  if  you  're  not  fond  of  babies  —  and  peaches. 
But  they  do  come  so  done  up  in  flannel!  " 

"Dear  Joanna,"  said  Rebecca,  laughing,  "don't  be 
absurd.  It  will  seem  unkind  if  we  don't  go  soon. 
As  if  we  took  no  interest." 

"Well,  maybe  we  don't;  just  at  this  moment,  at 
least.  Perhaps,  another  day,  we  should.  But  people 
take  for  granted  that  we  're  interested  all  the  time, 
and  we  pretend  we  are.  And  so  we  have  to  act  up 
to  it,  whether  or  no,  and  hate  it  accordingly.  The 
world  's  absurd.  And  oh  dear!  it 's  so  full  of  other 
folks !  " 

Here  is  where  we  took  Joanna  up. 

Rebecca  said  nothing  for  a  moment.  Dear  and  in 
timate  as  the  sisters  were,  it  was  sometimes  a  puzzle 
for  one  to  comprehend  the  other.  Joanna's  moods 
might  mean  nothing  but  absurdity  and  waywardness, 
or  they  might  cover  feeling  that  called  for  a  deep 
sympathy.  Rebecca  could  not  tell.  On  points  of 
feeling,  Joanna  never  would  be  voluntarily  communi 
cative.  To  her,  strong-thoughted,  secret-hearted, 
masked  with  an  impervious  whimsicality  that  few 
would  know  how  to  approach  with  earnestness,  the 
world  would  be  likely,  all  her  life,  to  seem  filled  only 
with  "other  folks." 

Rebecca  brought,  presently,  an  open  book,  and  laid 
it  on  the  window-sill  before  her  sister.  These  words 
were  marked  upon  the  page.  "As  thou,  Father,  art 


72  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

in  me,  and  I  in  thee,  that  they,  also,  may  be  one  in 
us." 

"That  is  how  it  ought  to  be,"  she  said. 

"And  just  how  it  always  isn't,"  said  Joanna,  lean 
ing  her  head  upon  her  right  hand,  with  the  searching 
look  in  her  eyes  of  one  striving  to  solve  a  problem, 
and  gently  pushing  the  Bible  from  her,  with  her  left. 
"And  these  pretenses  only  hinder  it." 

"They  ought  not  to  be  pretenses.  Wherever  there 
are  Christians  there  should  be  Christian  love  and  sym 
pathy,  shouldn't  there?" 

"It 's  no  use  to  talk  in  the  potential  mood.  The 
present  indicative  contradicts  it  flatly.  At  least, 
among  the  Hilbury  Christians.  Take  Mrs.  Prouty. 
That  woman  aggravates  me  so,  with  her  perfections ! 
Why,  the  rest  of  the  world,  you  'd  think,  was  only 
made  to  be  an  offset  to  her  righteousness.  She  's  so 
faithful  among  the  faithless,  and  always  in  such  a 
small  way!  She  darns  her  stockings  —  Wednesday 
nights  —  on  the  right  side ;  and  it  is  n't  evangelical  to 
darn  them  on  the  wrong.  And  not  to  get  the  clothes 
dried  Monday,  when  her  wash  is  over,  is  nothing  less 
than  Anti-Christ.  It  's  mint,  anise,  and  cummin,  — 
gnats  and  needles'  eyes.  There  isn't  any  room  for 
Christian  sympathy.  And  then  look  at  Mrs.  Fair- 
brother,  with  her  whining  ways  and  beautiful  submis 
sion  to  her  troubles  and  'chastenings.'  Other  people 
are  chastened,  too,  I  suppose.  But  she  believes  Prov 
idence  keeps  a  special  rod  in  pickle  for  her,  and 
doesn't  do  much  else  of  importance  but  discipline 
and  pity  her.  I  'm  tired  of  going  about  among  such 
people." 

Rebecca  stood,  now,  at  the  toilet,  brushing  out  the 
soft,  delicate  cloud  of  her  dark  hair.  She  folded  it 
back  from  her  face,  and  wound  it  into  the  usual  simple 
knot  behind,  keeping  silence,  waiting  for  the  querulous 


THE  DAIRY  FARM.  73 

mood  to  pass.  Joanna  sat,  listlessly  plucking  leaves 
and  cherries  through  the  window ;  biting  either,  as  it 
happened,  indifferently.  Presently  she  roused  and 
turned. 

"I'm  cross,  Becsie,  I  know;  and  wicked.  But  it 
seems  sometimes  as  if  the  world  were  all  wrong.  We 
must  do  something,  I  suppose.  There  are  those  books 
Jane  left  to  be  taken  over  to  Wealthy.  She  always 
manages  to  leave  that  for  us.  Let 's  take  the  chil 
dren,  and  walk  over.  If  anybody  but  you  can  set 
me  straight  when  I  'm  crooked,  it 's  Wealthy  Hoogs. 
She  's  real,  and  strong." 

"Wealthy,  healthy,  and  wise,"  assented  Rebecca 
playfully. 

"I  don't  know  about  the  wise.  What  did  she 
marry  Jaazaniah  for  ?  " 

Down  on  the  rock,  under  the  pleasant  shade  of  the 
plum-tree,  two  other  little  lives  were  getting,  in  their 
separate  fashion,  whatever  the  world  had  for  them 
to-day.  Say  had  set  her  doll  upon  a  moss  throne,  in 
a  high  cleft,  and  crowned  her  with  golden  buttercups, 
and  built  a  bower  of  asparagus  plumes  about  her,  and 
put  in  her  hand  a  peeled  willow  twig,  for  a  wand. 
This  was  her  fairy  queen  of  the  grotto.  And  mutely, 
lest  Gershom  should  wake  to  consciousness  of  what  she 
was  about,  and  ridicule  her,  she  was  performing  her 
favorite  fairy  tale  of  the  Immortal  Fountain.  The 
asparagus,  tossing  its  feathers  of  green,  —  the  beans, 
winding  their  scarlet  blossoms  around  the  tall  poles, 
—  the  growing  cornr  standing  in  stately  rows,  putting 
forth  its  young  tassels,  —  these,  filling  with  their  ranks 
the  long  garden  upon  one  side,  were  the  fairy  troops 
she  essayed,  according  to  the  story,  successively,  to 
pass.  The  Immortal  Fountain  was  supposed  to  be 
hidden  in  the  vine-covered  summer-house  at  the  farther 
end. 


74  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

Gershom,  outstretched  upon  his  back,  lay  utterly 
heedless  of  it  all.  He  was  rounding  the  Horn,  in  the 
forecastle  of  the  Pilgrim. 

Say  came  back  to  her  fairy  queen,  after  a  breeze 
had  swept  the  corn-patch,  and  refused  her  passage  by 
the  crossing  of  its  blades.  Gershom,  at  the  end  of  the 
chapter,  flung  down  the  book,  and  came  back,  also, 
from  far  Pacific  seas. 

"I  've  never  seen  anything  but  Hilbury  rocks,"  he 
cried.  "Say!  how  does  the  sea  look?  Come  and 
tell  me." 

According  to  the  spirit  of  the  story,  the  corn-fairies 
should  unhesitatingly  have  lowered  their  green  blades, 
the  next  time,  on  Say's  approach;  so  readily  did  she 
abandon  her  pantomime  at  the  boy's  call. 

"The  sea?  Why,  down  at  the  wharf,  where  the 
Pearl  comes  in,  it's  black  and  dirty;  and  you're 
afraid  all  the  time  of  falling  in.  But  up  on  Harbor 
Hill,  where  papa  takes  me  to  walk  sometimes,  it  looks 
wide  and  blue,  and  sparkles,  way  off,  up  against  the 
edge  of  the  sky.  And  you  can  see  the  vessels  sailing. 
But  I  think  it 's  prettier  here." 

"Poh!  that 's  because  you  're  a  girl.  I  'm  tired  of 
hills  and  trees.  I  want  to  see  the  sea.  And  I  mean 
to,  some  time." 

"Well,  you  're  coming  to  Selport  to  see  us,  you 
know.  And  then,  when  the  Pearl  comes  in,  we  '11  go 
down  to  the  wharf,  and  get  oranges  and  pineapples." 

"I  don't  care  for  the  oranges.  But  I  want  tb  see 
the  ship,  and  the  captain,  and  the.  sailors." 

"Well,  they'll  be  there.  And  we  can  sit  in  the 
cabin." 

"I  shall  go  up  the  masts.      To  the  very  top." 

"No,  indeed!      You '11  fall." 

"I  shan't  do  any  such  thing.  Can't  I  climb  a 
tree?  I  brought  home  a  crow's  nest,  last  spring,  off 


THE  DAIBY  FARM.  75 

the  top  of  a  pine,  higher  than  any  mast.  I  wonder  if 
grandpa  '11  let  me  go  ?  " 

"Of  course  he  will.      I  '11  ask  him." 

And  Say  skipped  away,  past  the  green  fairies,  and 
the  scarlet  fairies,  and  between  the  whispering  corn- 
blades,  triumphantly,  and  up  to  the  golden  sunflowers, 
that  shook  their  radiant  heads  at  her,  and  sent  her 
back. 

She  took  up  Gershom's  book.  "That  is  n't  pretty,  " 
she  said.  '"The  Swiss  Family  Robinson'  is  nice. 
Mamma  reads  it  to  me.  And  I  've  got  a  story  in  my 
•'Girl's  Own  Book,'  about  a  little  boy  and  girl  that 
went  away  to  sea  in  a  ship,  and  got  lost  among  the 
savages." 

There  was  ample  present  provision  for  Gershom's 
newly  awakened  craving.  Aunt  Jane  had  made  her 
selections  well.  Yet,  who  could  blame  her,  if  the 
boy,  like  all  boys,  should  grow  restless,  and  feel  a 
longing  to  see  the  world  ? 

Aunt  Rebecca,  with  her  dainty  white  sunbonnet  and 
large  green  parasol,  came  down  the  garden  path  and 
announced  to  the  children  the  plan  for  the  afternoon. 
A  walk  to  cousin  Wealthy 's  was  the  crown  and  acme 
of  Hilbury  delights  to  Say.  Even  Gershom,  after  a 
little  balancing,  let  himself  incline  to  the  single  thing 
that  could  have  persuaded  him  away  from  his  sea- 
story.  Yet  Say,  after  all,  of  the  whole  party,  was 
the  only  one  to  whom  came,  unalloyed,  the  perfect  joy 
of  the  golden  summer,  that  day,  among  the  hills. 

Around  by  the  high-road,  it  was  a  long,  toilsome, 
unsheltered  walk  to  Wealthy  Hoogs's.  The  way 
they  took, — down  Hartshorne's  lane,  through  the 
wild,  ferny  pasture,  out  by  the  pond  side,  and  around 
its  margin,  to  the  opposite  slopes,  up  which  a  wood- 
path  led  them  to  Jaazaniah's  hillside  farm,  — this  was 
purely  fair  and  fragrant,  green  and  still.  • 


76  THE  GAYWOBTHYS. 

Joanna  kept  her  face  very  straightforward,  and  her 
parasol  lowered  carefully  against  the  side  that  was  not 
sunny,  as  they  passed  down  the  lane;  divining,  some 
how,  without  directly  looking,  that  it  was  Gabriel  who 
stood  high  up  on  the  loaded  hay-rigging  out  there  at 
the  left,  pitching  its  perfumed  freight,  in  mighty 
trusses,  through  the  great  barn  window.  The  foot 
steps  of  the  sisters  fell  noiseless;  but  the  children 
leaped,  and  laughed,  and  shouted.  Gabriel  never 
turned.  After  they  had  well  gone  by,  he  paused, 
though,  and  took  breath,  leaning  upon  his  fork;  his 
face  toward  the  way  that  they  had  followed.  Then 
he  glanced  round,  westwardly,  and  raised  his  hand 
toward  the  sun ;  and  then  set  himself,  with  more  stal 
wart  strain  than  ever,  to  his  work  again. 

Down  in  the  edge  of  the  pasture,  the  Gayworthys 
met  Mrs.  Hartshorne  among  the  raspberry  bushes. 

"Well,  now,  I  declare!  You  hain't  called  in  and 
missed  me,  have  you  ?  You  've  been  as  scarce,  lately, 
as  eggs  in  January.  I  was  telling  father,  last  night, 
that  I  had  n't  laid  eyes  on  one  of  you,  except  at  meet 
ing,  since  Mis'  Gair  went.  And  —  speaking  of  meet 
ing —  I  guess  I  've  got  some  news  for  you.  Parson 
Fairbrother  was  in,  a  minute,  this  morning;  and  what 
do  you  think  he  says  ?  " 

"Stacy  Lawton  's  'found  a  hope,'  I  suppose." 

"How  came  you  to  guess,  right  off?  " 

"I  thought  she  'd  been  looking  for  it." 

"Well,  yes,  the  parson  says  she  's  been  in  a  very 
interesting  state  of  mind  for  some  weeks;  and  he's 
very  much  encouraged.  He  thinks  there  's  an  increas 
ing  seriousness  among  the  young  people.  But  that 
isn't  all;  though,  to  be  sure,  that's  what  we  ought 
to  care  the  most  about;"  and  Mrs.  Hartshorne's 
round,  cheery  face  lengthened  a  little,  duly,  for  an 
instant,  as  she  spoke,  but  sprang  back  to  its  jolly 


THE  DAIEY  FAEM.  77 

lines,  by  irresistible  native  elasticity,  and  lightened 
with  a  simple,  womanly  sympathy  and  delight  as  she 
went  on. 

"There  's  more  coming  of  it.  Only  it  isn't  to  be 
talked  of  quite  yet,  and  so  you  mustn't  tell.  But 
it  looks  as  if  there  was  work  ready-laid  out  for  her, 
and  he  as  good  as  said  so.  I  shan't  mention  any 
names." 

"Oh,  no.  It  isn't  worth  while.  It 's  been  pretty 
plain  that  there  was  one  thing  depending  on  another." 

"So,  she  's  made  sure  of  him!  I  knew  she  would, 
before  she  quite  committed  herself.  And  that  's  reli 
gion!  with  some  people.  I  know  yours,  Becsie,  is  a 
better  sort." 

It  was,  and  it  needed  to  be. 

Joanna  said  the  last  words  as  she  left  Mrs.  Harts- 
home  and  joined  her  sister,  who  had  moved  forward, 
and  was  disentangling  Say's  dress  from  the  raspberry 
stems,  among  which  the  child  had  plunged,  eagerly, 
after  the, fruit. 

Rebecca  had  had  an  instant's  time.  It  is  all  we 
need,  at  some  crises,  for  hiding  away  our  secrets  be 
tween  ourselves  and  Heaven.  Her  sweet  face  was, 
apparently,  unchanged,  as  she  turned,  now,  toward 
Joanna. 

"We  must  not  judge,"  said  she.  "And  perhaps 
she  has  only  had  given  her  just  what  she  needs  to  keep 
her  fixed.  God  takes  different  ways." 

And  so  they  passed  on;  their  feet  following  the 
same  track;  yet  one  of  the  twain,  from  that  moment, 
entering,  silently,  without  human  sign,  a  path  marked 
for  her  only.  God's  way.  One  taken,  and  the  other 
left.  How  long? 

They  came  down  to  the  edge  of  the  great  pond. 
Away  off,  eastwardly  and  southwardly,  it  swept,  shap 
ing  itself  among  the  hills,  its  limit  untraceable  except 


78  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

just  here  about  them.  A  light  rippling  line  whispered 
up  the  mimic  beach,  —  the  hill  they  had  just  come 
down  lay  behind  them  against  the  southwest  sky,  and 
the  birches  and  alders  that  fringed  its  base  shaded  the 
calm  water  and  its  pebbly  margin.  They  always  sat 
down  here  to  rest.  It  was  a  wonderful  stillness. 
Nothing  moved  but  the  lazy-lapping  water,  and  the 
tremulous  birch  leaves,  and  the  little  sandpiper  that 
scampered  along  the  wave-mark.  Even  the  children 
could  not  begin  at  once  to  play.  They  sat  down  upon 
the  pebbles,  and  dipped  up  water  in  their  palms  to 
drink. 

Gershom,  his  mind  stirred  with  new  thoughts, 
looked  out  upon  the  shining  expanse  and  upon  the  blue 
distant  hills  that  shut  it  in,  and  wondered  with  him 
self  where  in  the  world  was  room  left  for  the  great 
sea. 

The  sisters  talked  no  more.  Each  soul  went  its 
own  way  in  the  quietness.  Only  Say  was  supremely 
happy,  with  the  water  and  the  sky,  and  the  white 
clouds  sailing  about  in  both.  Only  Say  had  not  come 
yet  to  look  farther  than  things  visible,  except  as  from 
her  fairy  lore  she  peopled  the  scene  itself. 

Well,  that  was  all.  They  sat  and  rested  there. 
And  after  fifteen  minutes  they  got  up  and  went  on 
their  way ;  and  neither  one  knew  what  lines,  in  those 
few  moments,  life  might  have  written  for  another. 

They  went  half  a  mile  around,  to  where  a  pasture- 
path  led  up  again  —  more  rocky  and  shaded  this  time 
—  along  the  unfenced  hillside  of  the  Hoogs's  dairy 
farm. 

Away  up  here,  apart  from  all  neighborhood,  in  the 
little  red  house,  built  against  a  steep  of  granite,  lived 
cousin  Wealthy.  Between  summer  and  winter  — 
between  churn  and  spinning-wheel  —  her  life  vibrated. 
Her  husband  Jaazaniah  lived  here  too,  of  course. 


THE  DAIRY  FARM.  79 

Whatever  may  be  to  be  said  about  him  will  say  itself. 
If  Wealthy  Hoogs,  "hungry  for  books,"  full  of  keen 
thought,  energetic  to  a  preeminence  even  among  Yan 
kee  notables,  had  lived  the  high-pressure  life  of  mod 
ern  society,  —  if  her  Yankee  "  smartness  "  had  taken 
a  purely  aesthetic  turn,  —  which  having  never  hap 
pened  was  no  less  a  mercy  to  herself,  perhaps,  than  to 
Jaazaniah,  she  might  have  discovered,  as  so  many 
gifted  beings  seem  destined  to  do,  that  there  was 
something  unresponsive  in  her  sphere,  that  she  had  not 
found  —  I  am  half  ashamed  to  use  the  word  —  her 
"  affinity ;  "  that  she  was  a  mismatched,  misplaced 
woman.  Apparently,  she  was;  yet  she  compre 
hended  nothing  of  this  jargon ;  she  had,  seemingly, 
poor  creature,  never  found  it  out ;  she  lived  here  sim 
ply,  where  she  had  been  put;  made  and  packed  her 
butter,  wove  her  homespun,  and  loved  faithfully  — 
and  forbearingly,  for  the  most  part;  were  it  praise 
worth  a  woman's  having  to  say  more?  —  the  man 
whose  name  and  home  she  shared. 

If  Wealthy  Hoogs  could  have  been  spirited  from 
her  secluded  mountain  home,  and  set  down  bodily  in 
a  "  cultivated  circle, "  —  face  to  face  even  with  such  a 
one  as  soul  to  soul  stood  secretly  her  counterpart,  — 
I  think  neither  one  nor  the  other  of  them,  nor  any 
among  the  congenial  spirits  near,  who  through  fleshly 
eyes  should  behold  her  apparition,  would  at  once  have 
recognized  the  kin.  Perhaps,  for  the  strengthening 
and  consolation  of  "misplaced  "  existence,  in  whatever 
sphere,  the  same  conclusion  might,  in  its  behalf,  be 
safely  reached.  It  is  quite  possible  that  He  who  sets 
answering  souls  apart,  shrouding  them  from  each 
other's  ken  with  unlike  exteriors  of  form  and  phase, 
and  joins  by  circumstance  those  of  less  correspondent 
mould,  knows  most  clearly  the  fitness  of  his  own 
work,  and  the  fullness  of  his  times. 


80  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

Wealthy  was  a  spare,  "  long  -  favored  "  woman. 
Her  pale  hair  grew  high  upon  her  forehead,  and  could 
only  be  adjusted  in  the  straightest  of  straight  lines. 
Her  rather  small  gray  eyes  were  set  in  close  neighbor 
hood  on  either  side  the  thin-bridged  nose.  This  per 
haps  added,  in  effect,  to  the  wonderful  keenness  of 
their  glance.  They  pierced  you  with  their  intensity. 
They  seemed  always  penetrating  through  things  and 
people,  to  artesian  depths,  searching  after  that  she 
thirsted  for.  Sailors,  they  say,  who  daily  strain  their 
vision  to  the  very  earth-verge,  come  to  attain  a  mar 
velous  long-sightedness.  Peering  out,  from  her  re 
mote  isolation,  through  such  avenues  of  thought  as 
opened  themselves  toward  the  world  of  things  and 
thoughts  that  lay  like  a  dream  in  the  distance,  reach 
ing  her  spiritual  treasures  from  afar,  — she  grew  to 
place  'all  whereon  she  looked  instinctively,  as  it  were, 
at  long  range  and  focus.  So  she  got  into  her  face  the 
expression  that  people  say  "looks  through  you." 

"There  's  a  great  deal  besides  common  smartness  in 
Wealthy  Hoogs, "  said  her  townsfolk.  "And  how  on 
earth,"  it  was  not  seldom  added,  with  Yankee  sig 
nificance  of  incompleteness,  "she  ever  came  to  take 
up  with  that  Jaazaniah !  " 

They  found  her,  to-day,  on  the  little  square,  open 
platform,  that,  by  way  of  stoop,  was  built  against  the 
angle  of  the  house,  under  the  shade  of  a  great  oak. 
She  had  a  broad  wooden  tray  upon  her  lap,  in  which 
she  was  cutting  up  a  pure  white  mass  of  cheese-curd. 
Jaazaniah  sat  by;  his  chair  —  one  useless  fore-leg 
gone  —  tilted  up  against  the  red  shingles.  He  whit 
tled  a  stick,  and  whistled.  It  would  be  time,  pres 
ently,  to  go  after  the  "caows."  That  duty  impending 
absolved  the  interval  of  time.  Wealthy  chopped  on, 
following  her  own  solitary  thoughts,  feeling  a  certain 
habitual  comfort  of  having  him  at  her  elbow. 


THE  DAIEY  FARM.  81 

Voices  first,  and  then  heads,  coming  suddenly  in 
view  up  the  abrupt  path,  brought  the  visitors  to  their 
knowledge.  Then  there  was  voluble  country  welcome, 
and  "laying  off  things."  Say  was  made  free  of  the 
curd-trough,  and  pecked  away  eagerly  at  the  dainty 
white  bits,  like  a  bird  lit  in  a  seeded  field. 

"It's  kind  of  an  extra  job,  to-day,  this  cheese, v 
explained  Wealthy.  "I  don't  mostly  keep  such  work 
about  into  the  afternoon.  But  I  took  a  notion  to  set 
it  after  I  'd  got  my  butter  out  o'  my  hands.  We  had 
a  famous  churning,  didn't  we,  Jez?  " 

"Eleven  pounds,  and  jest  as  yaller  as  gold.  Guess 
't  would  do  ye  good  to  see  the  pats,"  said  Jaazaniah 
complacently.  "Lucky  ye  come  to-day,  for  Wealthy 
'n'  me  's  goin*  down  to  Winthorpe  to-morrow,  with 
sixty  weight." 

"Come  in,"  says  Wealthy,  proud  of  her  dairy,  and 
especially  of  this  new  churning,  as  a  brain-worker 
might  be  of  a  last  successful  poem.  "It 's  Lineback's 
cream;  and  you  wouldn't  think  she'd  ate  anything 
but  buttercups." 

If  Wealthy 's  dairy  was  not  poetry,  it  was  very 
near  it.  Right  up  against  the  solid,  cool  cliff,  that 
formed  one  wall,  — looking  out,  by  its  single  shaded 
window,  upon  a  rare  panorama  of  hill,  pasture,  and 
meadow,  with  the  gleaming  pond  stretched  far  below, 
—  redolent  with  a  mingling  of  the  cool  mountain  smell 
of  rock  and  moss,  and  the  fragrance  of  churned  cow 
slips  and  clover,  that  had  given  up  their  essence  into 
the  golden  rolls  and  pats  that  were  ranged  on  shelf, 
or  stored  in  boxes,  — musical  with  the  gurgle  and 
plash  of  spring-water,  that  came  in  by  a  cleverly  fixed 
spout,  and  flowed  constantly  through  the  large,  shal 
low,  wooden  receptacle  wherein  Wealthy  worked  and 
moulded,  —  there  was  such  breath  of  purity,  such 
suggestion  of  all  delight  of  life  and  growth  that  cul- 


82  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

minated  here,  as  no  written  word  can  give  the  feel 
ing  of. 

Say  drew  long  breaths  as  she  entered.  "I  should 
like  to  live  here, "  she  said. 

"I'll  keep  you,"  answered  Wealthy  Hoogs,  with 
one  of  her  long,  asking  looks.  Say  thought  it  sharp, 
and  shrank  away,  half  changing  her  mind.  In  this 
little  hillside  home  there  had  never  been  a  child. 

"We  've  brought  some  books  that  Jane  left  for 
you, "  said  Joanna.  "  She  would  have  come  up,  but 
she  hadn't  time.  And  it  's  been  so  very  hot." 

"I  know  it  has.  This  is  the  first  comfortable 
breezy  day  for  most  a  fortnight.  And  I  'm  thoroughly 
obliged.  It 's  a  great  thing  to  get  a  book  up  here. 
Specially,  when  the  winter  nights  come  on." 

"There  's  something  among  them  —  a  book  of  trav 
eler's  stories  —  that  we  thought  Jaazaniah  might 
like." 

"Maybe  he  will.  But  he  never  took  no  great  to 
readin' ;  more  'n  a  chapter  in  the  Bible  of  a  Sunday, 
or  the  newspaper  once  a  week,  or  the  Almanac.  Some 
times  I  wish  't  he  would.  It  seems  like  goin'  off  and 
leavin'  him  all  alone,  when  he  sits  here  and  I  get  into 
a  book.  I  'm  clear  lost  for  a  while,  that 's  a  fact. 
But  then  he  's  always  glad  to  see  me  back  again,  and 
that  's  one  good  of  goin'  away,  however  you  do  it." 

"Don't  you  ever  read  aloud  to  him?  " 

"Well,  I  used  to  try  that,  now  and  then.  But  it 
did  n't  do  much  good.  I  had  to  keep  nudgin'  him  up 
all  the  time,  or  he  'd  be  sure  to  go  to  sleep.  He  ain't 
one  of  the  sort  that  can  stand  bein'  read  to.  We  ain't 
much  alike  in  some  things,  and  I  suppose  it  isn't  best 
to  be.  He  's  just  as  clever  as  the  day  is  long;  and 
you  know  that  as  well  as  I  do." 

Wealthy  finished  her  sentence  with  a  certain  sudden, 
short  defiance,  as  if  she  thrust  down,  with  averted 


THE  DAIRY  FARM.  83 

mental  vision,    some  buried-alive  thought  that  lifted 
itself  now  and  then. 

"If  he  got  lost,  as  I  do,  there 'd  be  no  knowing 
when  we  should  ever  come  across  one  another  again. 
But  he  's  a  kind  of  anchor  for  me.  He  's  always  right 
there,  and  I  know  just  where  to  find  him." 

With  this  bit  of  wifely  philosophy,  Wealthy  led  the 
way  out  again,  toward  the  house  front,  where  Jaaz- 
aniah  whittled  and  whistled  still,  with  inter jectional 
sentences  of  conversation  with  Gershom,  and  glances 
at  the  descending  afternoon  sun. 

"You  might  think,  to  see  him  sittin'  there,  that  he 
was  lazy.  His  mother  used  to  tell  him  he  was.  But 
I  know  better.  He's  busy  thinkin'.  He  isn't  one 
that  tells  his  thoughts  much ;  but  they  come  out,  once 
in  a  while,  in  a  way  that  would  surprise  you.  And 
you  ought  to  see  him  at  a  thing,  when  he  once  gets 
a-going.  He  's  slow  to  begin,  that 's  all.  Come,  Jez, 
make  haste  and  get  the  cows  home,  and  the  milkin' 
done,  while  I  get  this  cheese  into  the  press.  The 
folks  '11  stay  to  supper,  of  course.  And  then,  Jez, 
what  if  you  take  the  boat  and  row  the  children  across 
the  pond  ?  " 

"Jest  what  I  was  a-thinkin'  of,"  responded  Jaaz- 
aniah  slowly,  shutting  up  his  jack-knife,  and  coming 
down,  skillfully,  on  the  one  forward  leg  of  his  chair. 

"  I  told  you  so, "  said  Wealthy  triumphantly,  as  he 
moved  away.  "He  always  gets  ahead  of  me,  after 
all  's  said  and  done.  I  've  got  into  the  way  of  always 
feelin'  a  kind  of  care  of  him,  and  remindin'  him  of 
things;  but,  half  the  time,  there  ain't  really  any  need 
of  it.  I  suppose  it  's  partly  because  his  mother's  mem 
ory  grew  so  short  in  her  last  days,  and  I  had  to  look 
after  her  considerable;  and  when  anybody  's  been  used 
to  doin',  — no  matter  what  it  is,  — they  can't  shake 
off  the  habit  very  easy.  Do  you  know  what  I  think  of 


84  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

every  time  I  look  at  that  old  apple-tree,  over  there  on 
the  knoll  ?  I  do  have  curious  thoughts  .about  things 
sometimes.  Well,  it  seems  to  me  it  's  just  like  the 
cares  people  have  laid  upon  'em,  and  by  and  by  get 
so  's  't  they  can't  do  without  'em.  You  see  it  grows 
right  out  from  under  a  rock  that  happened  to  lay  just 
there,  and  nobody  ever  moved  it  away.  In  the  first  of 
it,  I  suppose,  it  was  a  pretty  hard  chance.  But  it 
crept  round  and  climbed  up  at  last  into  a  tree.  And 
now  just  look  how  the  rock  over  its  roots  keeps  it  bal 
anced!  Why,  if  anybody  should  pry  up  that  stone 
now,  and  heave  it  away,  you  can  see,  by  the  cant  of 
the  whole  trunk,  that  it  would  n't  hold  itself  up  a  min 
ute!  And  here  I  am,  standing  moralizing,  with  the 
cheese-tray  in  my  hands, "  she  cried,  interrupting  her 
self.  "It  's  clear  I  want  something  to  hold  me  down!" 

It  was  pretty  clearly  suggested  to  the  minds  of  her 
listeners  how  this  want  of  hers  had  been  permanently 
provided  for,  as  slow-moving,  literal  Jaazaniah  came 
out  of  the  dairy,  his  arms  strung  with  milk-pails,  and 
took  his  plodding  way  down  the  path  toward  the  barn 
yard,  wrinkling  his  brows  in  the  level-glancing  after 
noon  sunlight,  with  never  an  apparent  out-glancing  of 
any  light  within  kindled  of  all  those  heavenly  shafts 
illumined. 

"We  all  get  that,  one  way  or  another,  I  suppose," 
said  Rebecca  thoughtfully.  "It 's  well  when  we  can 
see  the  good." 

"All  the  same,"  said  Joanna  quickly,  "I  can't  help 
wanting  to  give  the  rock  a  hoist.  And  I  think,  in  the 
beginning,  somebody  ought  to  have  done  it.  At  any 
rate,  people  needn't  plant  themselves  in  that  fashion. 
You  're  just  buried  alive  here,  Wealthy  Hoogs,  and  I 
can't  help  saying  so.  Nobody  to  speak  to  month  in 
and  month  out,  except  Jaazaniah,  and  he  won't  talk 
back." 


THE  DAIRY  FARM.  85 

"Maybe  I  like  that  best,  when  I  get  a-going,"  re 
plied  Wealthy,  with  a  touch  of  quiet  humor.  "Besides, 
there  's  more  in  folks  than  what  gets  said.  There  's 
all  sorts  of  hindrances;  things  don't  always  seem  to 
correspond.  It 's  just  as  it  is  with  children.  They 
want  to  say  great  grown-up  words  sometimes,  but  they 
don't  dare.  When  I  was  four  years  old,  I  told  my 
mother  once  that  I  wished  I  was  fifteen,  so  's  't  I  could 
say  'probable.'  Clo'es  is  considerable.  If  Jaazaniah 
ever  does  come  out  more  than  ordinary,  it 's  on  a  Sun 
day,  when  he  's  dressed  and  shaved,  and  gets  the  rough 
off  a  little.  I  don't  doubt,  if  he  wore  a  black  suit 
every  day,  and  kep'  his  hands  clean,  and  his  chin 
smooth,  like  a  minister,  he  might  talk  like  one.  He  's 
got  a  soul,  and  thoughts.  It  comes  out  in  his  whistlin'. 
He  could  n't  make  such  music  as  he  does  out  of  nothin'. 
You  never  heard  it,  nor  nobody  else,  as  I  have.  Why, 
when  we  're  sittin'  here,  all  alone,  sometimes,  as  we 
were  just  now,  before  you  come  along,  he  '11  go  on  so, 
that  I  hold  my  breath  for  fear  of  stoppin'  him.  It 's 
like  all  the  Psalms  and  Revelations  to  listen  to  it. 
There  's  something  between  us  then  that 's  more  than 
talk.  No,  I  don't  care  what  folks  think  about  it;  nor 
I  don't  care  whether  it  ever  comes  out  any  plainer  as 
long  as  we  both  live;  but  I  know  I  was  no  fool  in 
takin'  Jaazaniah.  The  rough  '11  come  off  some  time, 
—  over  Jordan  if  it  don't  here,  — and  then,  all  I  'm 
afraid  of  is,  whether  or  no  I  shall  make  out  to  keep  up 
with  him." 

If  you  haven't  cared  for  this  little  passing  glimpse 
at  Wealthy  Hoogs's  life,  inner  and  outer,  it  has  been 
very  easy  for  you  to  skip  it ;  but,  however  it  may  be 
with  this,  my  poor  presentment,  if  she  had  come  to 
you  as  an  episode  in  your  own  actual  experience,  I  am 
very  sure  you  would  have  done  no  such  thing. 

The  tea-drinking  was  such  as  could  only  have   been 


86  THE  GAYWOBTHYS. 

had  in  just  that  spot,  and  from  just  those  simply  hos 
pitable  hands.  The  sun  was  lowering  slowly  to  the 
horizon,  lessened  everywhere,  in  those  regions,  by  the 
multitudinous  hills,  when  Jaazaniah  helped  the  children 
and  Aunt  Rebecca  carefully  into  his  little  boat,  and 
put  off  from  the  shore  at  the  foot  of  the  descent.  Jo 
anna  refused  to  go.  She  would  rather,  she  said,  walk 
round  the  head  of  the  pond,  in  the  twilight ;  and  there 
wasn't  room  to  take  all  safely.  They  wouldn't  get 
across  before  she  should  come.  They  meant  to  have  a 
row  up  the  bend,  first. 

Joanna  Gay  worthy  had  a  battle  to  fight,  —  after  her 
own  fashion.  She  must  have  it  out  with  herself,  and 
she  must  be  left  alone  to  do  it.  She  wanted  to  stand 
up,  face  to  face,  with  this  great  blank  future  that 
opened  itself  out  before  her,  and  see  what  its  empti 
ness  was  like,  and  grapple  with  its  phantoms,  and  put 
them  down,  once  for  all,  if  it  might  be. 

There  is  a  point  we  each  come  to,  once,  —  and 
Joanna,  whether  she  understood  it  or  no,  had  reached 
it,  — when  a  woman's  life  rounds  itself  out  about  her 
as  the  firmament,  and  in  like  manner  resolves  itself  to 
her  vision.  One  sun,  —  the  rest  a  thronging  huddle 
in  a  far  ecliptic.  Her  sun  had  hidden  itself  below 
the  horizon.  Night  was  teaching  her  the  secret  of  her 
day.  Until  Kate  Purcell  and  her  brother  had  come 
to  Deepwater,  there  had  never  been  a  thought  of  doubt 
or  loss  to  prompt  her  to  look  up  and  discover  whence 
her  daylight  came.  It  lessened,  all  at  once;  she 
turned  her  back  upon  it,  and  could  find  nothing  in  the 
whole  wide  horizon,  suddenly,  but  sharp-eyed,  imper 
tinent  little  far-off,  self-sphered  stars. 

Gabriel  Hartshorne  had  come  no  nearer  than  the 
garden  fence,  on  some  farm  errand,  since  the  Sunday 
I  have  told  you  of.  Joanna  was  fractious  and  unrea 
sonable  ;  nobody  knew  why,  —  herself  least  of  all, 


THE  DAIRY  FARM.  87 

perhaps ;  nothing  was  worth  while ;  the  world  was  full 
of  "other  folks." 

She  had  longed  to  get  off,  alone,  somewhere ;  there 
had  been  no  chance  for  it;  Mrs.  Gair's  stay,  her  de 
parture,  the  hundred  little  put-off  things  that  had  to 
be  done  to  bring  the  family  back  into  the  ordinary 
grooves  again,  —  all  had  teased  and  prevented  her  till 
it  had  become  unbearable.  Now,  she  would  be  left. 

So  she  stood  there  by  the  water-side,  as  the  little 
boat  passed  round  the  bend,  Rebecca,  with  her  calm 
face  turned  toward  her  as  she  sat  in  the  bow,  floating 
away  into  the  placid  shadows,  and  out  of  sight,  leav 
ing  her  to  the  wild  solitude  that  hushed  itself  around 
her  into  waiting  silence.  How  should  she  know  ? 

Ah,  me !  the  mute  histories  that  run  side  by  side ! 
The  hearts  that  seem  to  touch,  whose  electric  currents 
never  find  each  other  with  the  spark  of  inmost  recog 
nition  ! 

"I  should  like  to  know  how  people  come  to  bear 
their  lives !  "  It  was  in  this  wise  Joanna  began  the 
fight.  "A  whole  winter,  shut  up  there,  with  Jaaza- 
niah  Hoogs !  Ten,  twenty,  sixty  winters,  perhaps !  " 
She  gave  a  little  gasping  scream,  to  herself,  at  the 
imagination.  "And  there's  Prue  !  And  Jane  is  n't 
much  better,  whatever  she  supposes.  And  I  wonder 
what  I  'm  coming  to !  I  shall  have  Becsie  for  a  while, 
maybe,  — she  's  all  I  've  got,  — and  then  —  somehow 
—  she'll  slip  away  from  me,  as  she  did  just  now; 
she's  too  good  for  us,  I'm  afraid;  or  perhaps  some 
prowling  missionary  will  come  along,  as  they  do  in  the 
memoirs,  and  carry  her  off  to  the  tigers  and  anacon 
das.  And  then  I  shall  take  care  of  father;  but  I  can't 
keep  him  forever;  and  Gershie '11  grow  up,  and  go 
away,  and  Prue  '11  go  after  him;  and  I  'm  tough,  and 
I  shall  live  through  it  all,  and  grow  fat, — that's 
what  it  turns  to  with  people  like  me,  — and  nobody  '11 


88  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

really  know  anything  about  it,  or  care  for  me;  and 
I  shall  just  be  *  old  Miss  Gayworthy  '  for  forty  years 
after  I  shall  wish  I  was  dead  and  gone !  Well !  the 
world  must  always  be  full  of  other  folks,  I  suppose ; 
and  I  shall  be  one  of  'em,  — that 's  all!  " 

And  with  this  she  hardened  her  heart  fiercely 
against  herself,  and  walked  on;  punching  great  holes 
in  the  gravelly  path  with  the  stick  of  her  parasol,  and 
supposing  that  so,  since  she  no  longer  worded  them 
mentally,  she  put  down  thoughts.  But  they  kept 
seething  confusedly,  —  the  something  in  her  short  past, 
that  she  would  not  look  at  or  acknowledge,  except  as 
she  did  it  once,  to  her  own  sudden  surprise,  in  the  in 
voluntary  exclamation,  "I  wish  I  could  just  be  angry 
enough  not  to  care !  "  mingling  and  alternating  with 
the  dreary  touches  imagination  laid  upon  that  picture 
of  the  coming  years. 

By  and  by  —  she  hardly  knew  it  —  the  harsh,  wild 
fancies  began  to  soften;  a  furtive,  unshaped  sugges 
tion  crept  in  among  them,  that  other  lives,  too,  must 
go  on ;  that  there  would  always  be  something  to  know, 
and  to  think  of,  and  to  care  for,  if  she  pleased,  how 
ever  secretly ;  to  be  true  to,  however  hopelessly.  That 
lines  not  identical  might  yet  run  a  great  way  parallel ; 
that  it  would  be  hard  if  they  should  never  cross  or 
coincide ;  that  people  born  into  this  world  contempo 
raneously  couldn't  get  off  the  planet,  or  into  another 
generation ;  that,  set  at  first  in  propinquity  with  like 
local  ties  and  interests,  they  would  scarcely  drift  away 
from  each  other  into  utter  incognizance  and  separation ; 
that  they  might,  even,  grow  old  before  each  other's 
eyes,  and  in  a  comfortable  friendliness ;  and  that  she 
should  n't  very  much  mind  being  "old  Miss  Gay- 
worthy,  "  if  only  —  and  just  then  her  thoughts  took 
definite  form,  and  flashed  off  to  Deepwater;  and  she 
"didn't  believe  there  was  anything  in  that  PurcelJ 


THE  DAIRY  FARM.  89 

story ;  they  were  all  off,  now,  and  nothing  seemed  to 
have  come  of  it.  But  why  didn't  Gabriel  so  much 
as  turn  his  head  to-day?  "  She  knew  he  hadn't,  for 
she  had  heard  the  whish  of  every  truss  of  hay  that 
he  had  thrust  in,  without  pause,  at  the  barn-chamber 
window,  until  they  had  got  round  where  he  couldn't 
see;  and  here  she  caught  herself  up  indignantly,  and 
leaped  to  her  feet  from  the  fallen  log  upon  which,  at 
the  turn  of  the  path,  she  had  seated  herself  mechani 
cally,  wondering  how  ever  she  had  come  round  to  that 
again. 

Just  then  a  little  boat  —  not  Jaazaniah's  —  came 
up  to  view  along  the  opposite  shore,  and  veered  this 
way. 

I  said  she  was  at  the  turn  of  the  path.  Here,  the 
bank  became  abrupt  and  broken,  and  the  shore  path 
ended  for  a  space.  A  little  track  bent  off  into  the 
woods,  and  followed  the  curve  around  the  head  of  the 
pond,  which  leaned  itself  coquettishly  this  side,  — 
touching  again,  farther  on,  the  strip  of  pebbly  beach, 
and  there  offering  choice  of  road,  — by  shore  or  on, 
within  the  fringe  of  wood,  to  the  point  where  they  had 
first  struck  the  pond,  this  afternoon,  at  the  foot  of 
Farmer  Hartshorne's  pasture. 

Joanna  gave  a  flashing  glance  at  boat  and  oarsman, 
sweeping,  with  vigorous  stroke,  toward  her. 

"Does  he  think,  I  wonder,  I  shall  stand  here  for 
him  to  come  and  fetch  me  ?  "  And  the  light  muslin 
dress,  that  against  the  green  had  been  an  unwitting 
signal  for  his  guidance,  vanished  from  the  rower's 
sight  among  the  trees. 

Quick  as  thought  the  boat's  bow  turned.  It  was 
a  race. 

If  Joanna  could  only  get  past  the  turning  first! 
But  the  little  feet  that  hurried  so  along  the  mossy  way 
stood  but  small  chance  against  the  lusty  sweep  of  oars 


90  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

that  shot  the  light  craft  with  such  rapid  impulse  along 
the  inner  line,  toward  the  point  of  meeting.  She 
could  catch  frequent  glimpses  out  between  the  trees, 
and  note  its  progress.  She  could  measure  odds,  and 
she  knew  that  she  was  worsted.  That  he  must  know 
it,  too,  and  that  to  leave  the  path,  and  to  dash  away 
into  the  woods,  as  for  an  instant  she  felt  temptation 
to  do,  would  not  only  cause  great  uneasiness  to  her 
sister,  but  would  be  to  those  other  eyes  absurd  and 
manifest  flight.  Since  there  was  no  help  for  it,  then, 
she  would  keep  her  dignity,  at  least.  So  she  walked 
slowly,  again,  —  very  slowly,  —  and  gathered  breath ; 
and  came  out,  leisurely  enough  at  last,  upon  the  nar 
row  beach  where  Gabriel  Hartshorne  sat  waiting  in  his 
boat,  and  confronted  him  as  one  who  knew  no  cause 
for  shrinking. 

The  young  man  sprang  ashore. 

"I  was  determined  to  find  you,  Joanna.  I  had 
something  to  say.  I  should  have  been  glad  to  have 
rowed  you  over." 

"I  wanted  the  walk,  thank  you.  And  now  I  must 
make  haste,  for  I  have  been  longer  than  I  meant,  and 
I  dare  say  the  others  have  crossed  the  pond  below." 

"No,"  answered  Gabriel.  "The  children  were 
getting  lilies  in  the  bend  when  I  came  up." 

He  had  lain  about  upon  the  water,  watching,  a  full 
hour  past,  for  the  poor  reward  of  these  five  minutes. 
He  would  not  have  them  shortened,  now. 

Joanna  walked  on,  replying  nothing. 

"You  're  offended,  Joanna,  and  I  suppose  I  can 
guess  why.  But  there  hasn't  been  any  reason.  I 
can't  explain  everything.  If  I  could  " 

"I  am  sure  I  would  n't  give  you  the  trouble.  I  don't 
know  why  I  should  be  supposed  to  be  offended ;  and  I 
certainly  can't  pretend  to  call  you  to  account." 

What  strange,  wayward  words  rush  to  the  lips  when 


THE  DAIRY  FARM.  91 

the  heart,  is  fullest !  These  translated  nothing  of  Jo 
anna's  self.  Her  sky  was  filling  again  with  light. 
The  whole  east  crimsoned  with  a  coming  joy.  The 
impertinent  stars  faded  out  of  her  thought,  and  were 
forgotten.  She  could  have  sung,  like  a  bird  at  dawn. 
And  yet  she  answered  frowardly.  There  was  a  curious 
delight  in  such  very  utterance.  Like  a  child,  she 
meant  to  be  good  in  a  minute ;  she  meant  to  let  herself 
be  happy ;  but  the  last  ebullitions  of  a  relenting  naugh 
tiness,  the  last  throbs  of  an  expiring  pain,  — there  is 
a  pleasure  of  perversity,  a  sweetness  of  torture,  in  the 
very  prolonging  of  these. 

Gabriel  answered  to  her  words. 

"I  wish  I  could  show  you  my  whole  mind,  this 
minute,"  said  the  young  man  earnestly.  "You 
wouldn't  —  that  is,  I  hope  not  —  find  anything  in  it 
that  would  offend  you.  I  told  you  I  could  n't  explain. 
Things  have  n't  gone,  lately,  quite  as  they  used  to, 
between  us.  I  only  want  to  ask  you  to  believe  it  isn't 
my  fault.  We  've  always  been  good  friends,  have  n't 
we,  Joanna  ?  " 

That  nearly  spoiled  the  whole.  A  little  while  ago, 
compounding  meekly  with  fate,  Joanna  could  have 
borne  to  be  "  old  Miss  Gayworthy, "  for  a  certain  com 
fortable  friendliness  that  might  still  be  hers ;  now,  was 
this  all? 

Had  he  pursued  her  so,  to  say  only  this  ?  That  he 
would  like  to  say  something  better,  if  he  could  ?  Jo 
anna  felt  inclined  to  be  rather  more  indignant  than 

O 

ever.  Spite  of  her  capricious  flight,  the  great  solitude 
wherein  she  sat  and  dreamed  had  been  so  blithely 
broken  by  the  coming  of  his  boat !  Such  a  thrill  re 
called  her  to  the  present,  —  such  a  nameless  hope 
stirred  suddenly,  —  and  over  the  hard,  lonely  years  she 
had  looked  out  on  fell  such  a  happy  mist  once  more, 
shutting  her  back  into  her  youth  again ! 


92  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

The  first  words,  too,  that  had  infringed,  with  a 
manly  willfulness,  the  silence  that  had  lain  between 
them,  giving  her  a  safe  feeling  in  her  own  little  petu 
lance,  that  might  be  indulged,  since,  without  humilia 
tion  to  herself,  it  should  presently  be  overborne,  — 
meant  they  nothing  more  than  this  ? 

She  felt  very  like  the  child,  who  discovers,  after  his 
naughtiness,  that  he  may  be  as  good  as  he  pleases,  yet 
it  chiefly  concerns  himself ;  the  world  is  to  go  on  very 
much  as  it  has  always  done  before. 

He  only  wanted  to  be  friends,  then. 

"Of  course,"  she  answered  coldly.  "There's  no 
need  to  make  a  special  talk  about  it.  When  are  you 
going  to  Winthorpe  ?  " 

"To  study?  I  don't  know.  I'm  afraid  all  that 
is  put  off  for  some  time.  Father  seems  to  need  me 
at  home.  Things  don't  look  altogether  clear,  ahead. 
I  may  have  to  give  up  the  law,  after  all,  and  stick  to 
the  farm." 

"There  they  are,  — coming  round  the  point.  They 
did  cross  below.  We  must  make  haste  and  meet  them. 
It  is  getting  late. " 

"Joanna!  "  exclaimed  Gabriel  suddenly,  placing 
himself  before  her  in  the  narrow  path,  —  "if  it  was 
fair  and  right  to  ask  —  as  things  are  —  I  would  ask 
you  "  — 

It  was  a  blundering  beginning ;  but  he  would  have 
blundered  on,  blessedly,  if  she  had  let  him ;  which  of 
course  she  didn't. 

"  Better  not !  "  she  interposed  hurriedly,  putting  a 
full  stop,  so,  after  this,  his  third  dash.  "Don't  you 
remember  what  we  used  to  say  at  school,  when  we 
opened  our  noon-baskets?  'Those  that  ask  shan't 
have;  those  that  don't  ask  don't  want '?  It  always 
makes  me  contrary-minded,  when  folks  come  asking 
things !  " 


THE  DAIEY  FARM.  93 

She  put  one  foot  on  a  great  stone  that  lay  in  the 
water,  and  sprang  past  him,  keeping  on  her  way.  He 
could  but  follow. 

"It's  clear  she  means  to  hold  me  off/'  was  his 
thought. 

"What  in  the  world  did  he  begin  with  a  capital  IF 
for?  "  was  hers.  "And  why  shouldn't  it  be  'fair  and 
right, '  — unless  he  's  gone  and  made  it  wrong?  " 

Thrums  again.  This  thread  broke.  Many  things 
were  to  happen  afterward  to  prevent  its  joining.  But 
how  should  Joanna  know  that  ?  She  went  home  gayer 
hearted  than  for  long  past. 

It  would  come  right,  somehow;  she  did  not  truly 
believe  there  was  anything  wrong,  despite  her  captious 
coquetry.  He  would  begin  again,  some  time,  before 
long,  without  the  capital  IF,  and  say  his  lesson  bet 
ter. 

There  was  a  little  quick  restlessness  in  her  manner, 
as  she  sat  and  chatted  with  Prue  and  the  doctor,  tak 
ing  their  tea  together.  She  sang  as  she  washed  up  the 
cups  and  plates  afterward;  when  that  was  done,  she 
sang  softly,  still  to  herself,  standing  out  by  the  door- 
stone  in  the  great  maple  shade. 

Rebecca  complained  that  the  sun  had  given  her  a 
headache,  and  betook  herself  quietly,  with  her  pain, 
to  bed. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

WATCHING    AND    WAITING. 

AFTER  that,  for  days  and  days,  Joanna  watched  and 
waited."  Not  visibly.  Hardly  consciously.  She  never 
stood  looking  out  of  doors  and  windows,  to  see  if  any 
body  were  coming.  She  omitted  nothing  of  her  ordi 
nary  share  of  household  duties.  She  took  care  of  Say; 
put  on  her  long-sleeved  tiers  when  she  sent  her  out  to 
play;  changed  her  stockings  when  she  came  in  with 
wet  feet,  from  playing  by  the  brook ;  told  her  stories ; 
went  down  to  the  orchard  with  her,  to  pick  up  red, 
spicy  summer  apples ;  filled  every  moment  of  her  time 
more  busily  even  than  her  wont,  with  successive  small 
objects  and  employments ;  never  paused  to  think  what 
it  was  that  she  expected,  or  that  she  expected  anything ; 
yet,  each  day,  put  some  slight  freshness  of  decoration 
to  her  simple  summer  afternoon  toilet,  thinking,  away 
down  secretly  in  the  heart  that  turned  a  deaf  ignoring 
to  its  own  whispers,  —  "To-night,  to-night!  surely, 
he  will  come !  " 

She  could  not  think  he  would  let  it  all  end  here. 
That  he  had  taken  her  little  flippancy  for  final  answer 
to  the  question  not  yet  fairly  asked. 

She  avoided  with  marvelous  ingenuity  any  little 
plan  of  walk  or  visit,  that  should  appropriate  those 
after-tea,  twilight  hours,  when,  nothing  else  occupying 
the  time,  they  were  accustomed  to  gather  about  the 
great  open  front -door,  that  faced  down  a  grass- walk 
of  some  ten  or  twelve  yards'  length,  to  the  white  gate 
in  the  garden  fence.  Through  this  white  gate,  often, 
neighbors  came,  strolling  in  to  spend  a  leisure  half 


WATCHING  AND  WAITING.  95 

hour.  Down  the  green  vista  Joanna  gazed  as  the 
shadows  deepened,  night  after  night,  —  sometimes  left 
sitting  there  alone,  —  in  an  unconf essed  expectation 
of  a  coming  fate.  And  night  after  night  the  katydids 
sang  in  the  maples,  and  the  long  summer  twilight 
faded  away,  and  the  dews  grew  chill,  and  a  dull  sore 
ness  gathered  and  spread  about  her  heart,  and  what 
she  looked  for  came  not.  Everything  else  that  could 
come,  came,  at  one  time  or  another,  startling  her  with 
successive  shocks  of  certainty  and  disappointment,  as 
the  little  gate  swung,  clattering,  after  each  entrance, 
and  figures,'  that  might  at  first  glimpse  be  anybody's, 
moved  up  out  of  the  shadow  of  the  great  trees.  The 
minister  dropped  in  for  a  minute  with  revival  news ; 
a  farmer's  wife  had  a  word  for  Prue;  village  girls 
came,  laughing  and  chatting,  and  stayed,  and  chat 
tered  on,  till  Joanna  could  have  shrieked  at  them; 
little  boys  after  the  doctor;  and  then  everybody,  at 
last,  in  all  Hilbury,  was  safe  at  home  for  the  night; 
and  Prue  was  locking  up,  and  Rebecca's  gentle  voice 
called  her  remonstratingly  in,  out  of  the  dampness; 
and  the  katydids  were  shriller  and  more  insulting 
than  ever ;  and  the  starch  was  all  out  of  her  pretty 
muslin  dress;  and  that  day's  hope  was  over. 

Forty  rods  or  less  away,  down  the  road,  at  the 
Hartshorne  farmhouse,  somebody  else  spent  those  same 
twilight  hours,  thinking  and  brooding,  expecting  no 
thing.  Forty  rods,  at  most,  long  measure ;  what  had 
that  to  do  with  it  ?  There  was  a  space  widening  be 
tween  these  two  not  measurable  by  roods. 

One  night  the  doctor  came  in  late  to  tea,  — with 
something  very  evidently  on  his  mind.  He  had  been 
to  the  village  at  the  Bridge. 

"Prue,"  he  asked  suddenly,  "have  you  seen  any 
thing  of  Hartshorne 's  folks  for  a  week  or  two  back? 
Seems  to  me  I  haven't." 


96  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

"Why,  no,"  says  Prue.  "Not  to  speak  of.  And 
it 's  a  little  singular,  too.  I  suppose  Mrs.  Harts- 
horne  gets  pretty  well  tired  out  with  all  the  work  she 
has,  in  haying-time,  and  we  've  been  busy.  But  I 
can't  think  what  's  come  of  Gabe.  He  's  rather  left 
us  off,  lately,  I  must  say." 

"There  's  something  wrong  there,  Prue!  " 

Joanna  started  up  from  the  table,  — all  but  the 
doctor  had  long  finished  the  meal,  —  and  hastened 
suddenly  out  after  Say,  who  had  run  off,  in  her  clean 
stockings  and  pantalets,  to  sail  chips  in  the  horse- 
trough. 

"They  say  down  at  Barstow' s  that  the  old  man 
grows  queerer  every  day.  He  drives  down  and  buys 
odd  things  in  ridiculous  quantities;  things  he  can't 
possibly  have  any  use  for ;  and  perhaps  Gabriel  comes 
along  afterward  and  brings  'em  back,  with  some  ex 
cuse.  Yesterday,  there  were  half  a  dozen  in  there, 
standing  round,  and  in  comes  the  old  man,  — his 
otter-skin  cap  on,  too,  in  the  doggiest  of  dog-days,  — 
and  calls  for  'axe-heads.  Six  of  'em.' 

"'That's  a  good  many,'  says  Barstow,  not  know 
ing  exactly  how  to  manage.  'Want  any  helves?' 
'Did  n't  I  say  axe-heads?  '  he  snarls  out,  quite  fierce. 
When  I  want  anything  else  I  '11  ask  for  't.'  'What 
yer  goin'  to  set  'em  to?  '  says  old  Hines,  speaking  up 
from  the  corner,  in  his  shrill  way,  and  winking  to  the 
others,  that  upside-down  wink  of  his  that  takes  all  one 
side  of  his  face  to  do  it.  'Hallelujah  metre!  '  roars 
Hartshorne  again,  and  then  laughs.  'No  more  sense 
to  him  than  a  partridge, '  says  Hines,  chuckling.  Just 
here  Gabriel  came  in,  looking  hot  and  hurried.  He 
shook  his  head  at  Barstow  over  his  father's  shoulder, 
and  he  turned  round  and  waited  on  another  customer, 
and  presently  they  began  to  talk  of  something  else, 
and  then  the  old  man  seemed  to  forget  all  about  it, 


WATCHING  AND  WAITING.  97 

and  Gabe  got  him  away.  He  looks  strange,  too.  If 
they  asked  me,  I  should  tell  'em  not  to  trust  him 
about  alone.  Gabriel  does  seem  anxious,  and  keeps 
round  after  him  as  well  as  he  can.  But  the  old  man 
fires  up  if  he  notices." 

"Oh  dear!"  replied  Prue,  shocked.  "I  do  hope 
he  isn't  going  to  lose  his  mind!  ' 

The  doctor  moved  his  head  slowly,  twice,  from 
side  to  side. 

"I  've  had  my  thoughts  before  now,"  said  he.  "I 
hope,  whatever  it  is,  it  '11  take  a  quiet  turn  with  him. 
It 's  hard  enough,  anyway,  on  Gabriel  and  the  old 
lady.  He  oughtn't  to  be  irritated,  though.  It's 
queer  what  there  is  in  human  nature  that  turns  out 
Kineses.  People  that  never  had  any  wits  to  spare 
themselves,  always  ready  to  egg  on,  and  chuckle,  when 
they  see  a  better  fellow  going  a  bit  astray.  Every 
cur  runs  after  and  barks,  when  a  noble-blooded  mastiff 
gets  a  tin  can  tied  to  his  tail.  Barstow's  is  a  bad 
place  for  Hartshorne." 

"But,  father,"  cried  Rebecca,  with  an  eager,  hor 
rified  look,  "can't  something  be  done?  Why  don't 
you  tell  them  ?  " 

f  "Child,"  answered  the  doctor,  almost  impatiently, 
"what  can  /do?  it's  in  the  hands  of  God.  And, 
next  to  Him,  they  know  more  than  anybody  else,  al 
ready.  " 

The  doctor  finished  his  tea  presently,  and  got  up 
and  went  out. 

Joanna  came  in.  Prue  turned  round  upon  her  with 
the  news.  She  stood  straight  up  between  them,  grow 
ing  pale,  and  looking  from  one  to  the  other  with  such 
an  expression  as  she  had  never  shown  them  on  her  face 
before. 

"I  don't  believe  one  word  of  it,"  she  said  slowly, 
with  a  sort  of  trample  in  her  tone.  "And,  you  two.1 


98  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

don't  ever  you  mention  it  again  to  a  living  soul.  It 's 
a  shame.  It  's  Hilbury  gossip.  I  wonder  father  lis 
tens  to  all  they  say,  down  there  at  Barstow's!  "  And 
with  this  she  left  them  and  went  out  to  the  front 
door-stone,  and -sat  down,  alone.  Could  this  be  why 
"things  didn't  look  quite  clear  ahead"  to  Gabriel? 
Was  this  the  unspoken  hindrance  that  lay  between 
them?  Had  she,  from  a  heedless,  unreasoning  im 
pulse,  checked  the  avowal  that,  breaking  through  a 
harsh  restraint,  was  ready,  in  that  moment  only,  to 
have  rushed  from  his  lips?  Might  she  have  given 
him  love  and  comfort,  that  now  he  would  never  come 
to  ask  again?  She  laid  her  hands  upon  her  knees, 
and  her  face  in  them,  and  questioned  herself  of  these 
things  bitterly. 

By  and  by,  her  head  flung  itself  up  again,  with  a 
sudden  spring. 

"After  all,  he  knew  I  couldn't  have  understood. 
And  they  were  all  close  by.  There  was  no  time.  He 
wouldn't  give  it  up  so,  if  he  meant  anything.  I 
wouldn't,  if  I  were  a  man!  At  any  rate,  he  can't 
keep  out  of  the  way  forever." 

With  another  sudden  movement  she  stood  up. 
Then  she  walked  restlessly  down  the  grass-path  to  the 
gate  beneath  the  maples.  She  looked  up  the  road, 
down  the  road,  in  the  clear,  early  evening  light, —  to 
the  top  of  the  long,  sloping  hill,  on  one  side;  to  the 
red  buildings  of  the  Hartshorne  farm,  below,  upon  the 
other.  A  few  steps  would  take  her  there ;  doubtless 
the  old  lady  was  wondering  why  some  of  them  did  not 
come.  A  month  ago  it  would  have  been  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world  to  run  down,  and  call  in. 
Now,  how  impossible  it  had  become !  She  and  Gabriel 
might  as  well  have  been  set  apart  on  opposite  ocean- 
shores.  Would  this  be  so  always?  Would  this  mys 
terious  gulf  lie  between  them,  unknown  of  others, 


WATCHING  AND  WAITING.  99 

holding  them  asunder,  all  their  lives?  Might  they 
"grow  old  before  each  other's  eyes,"  yet  miss  the 
"comfortable  friendliness  "  ? 

A  man's  figure  came  into  view,  moving  up,  in  the 
softening  and  uncertain  twilight. 

Joanna's  heart  beat  hard.  He  was  coming  at  last. 
And  she  would  not  be  shy  and  cold.  She  would  even 
give  him  opportunity.  Poor  fellow !  He  had  difficulty 
enough  in  his  way,  if  all  were  true.  She  would  be 
kind.  She  would  stand  still,  there  at  the  gate,  — 
hold  herself,  forcibly,  against  her  own  wayward  wish, 
—  and  meet  him,  alone.  She  would,  —  well,  it  mat 
tered  not  what  she  would  have  done.  The  figure  drew 
nearer  while  these  thoughts  were  flashing  through  her 
mind. 

"  What  a  fool  I  am !  "  she  muttered,  in  a  whisper, 
angrily,  between  her  teeth ;  her  hand  clutching  with  a 
fierce  pressure  the  upper  bar  of  the  white  gate,  as  one 
clutches  at  any  outward  thing,  to  bear  a  horrible  pain. 
She  turned  and  moved  swiftly  off  under  the  screening 
boughs  to  the  house-door,  whence  at  the  moment  Re 
becca  came  out. 

"Here  comes  your  revival  man,"  said  she  sharply. 
"Stay  and  attend  to  him.  I  can't."  And  she  ran 
upstairs  to  her  own  chamber,  shutting  herself  in. 

The  quiet  enduring  of  some  souls  gets  laid  upon  it 
not  only  its  own  unstinted  measure  of  pain,  but  half 
the  burden  of  others'  impatient  suffering.  Gordon 
King  was  coming  to  tell  them  of  his  betrothment. 
And  Rebecca,  of  all  the  household,  must  stay  alone 
and  listen  to  his  news.  I  think  if  he  had  known  how 
this  would  chance,  the  young  minister,  clear  as  he 
might  be  of  any  falsity  in  word,  would  yet  have 
shrunk,  with  a  certain  secret  compunction,  from  the 
ordeal. 

"I  suppose,"  said  he,    after  a  few  commonplaces, 


100  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

"you  know  something,  already,  of  what  I  have  to  tell 
you.  I  hope  you  are  glad  for  us  ?  "  So  he  asked  her 
for  congratulation.  What  could  Rebecca  say?  Her 
face  was  pale  and  earnest  in  the  dim  light,  as  she  an 
swered  him  in  words  given  her  surely  by  that  Spirit 
who  teacheth  his  own  in  each  moment  of  their  need 
what  they  shall  say  and  what  they  shall  speak. 

"I  hope,"  she  replied  slowly  and  solemnly,  "that 
you  may  both  be  glad,  all  your  lives,  and  forever,  in 
each  other,  —  and  in  the  Lord !  "  And  she  stretched 
out  her  hand  to  him  untremblingly,  as  an  angel  might. 

Did  no  secret  intimation  whisper  to  him  then,  in 
the  presence  of  that  grander,  purer  womanhood,  of 
something  he  might  have  missed  in  grasping  after  a 
mere  witchery  of  prettiness  ? 

He  uncovered  his  head,  involuntarily,  with  one  hand, 
as  he  met  hers  with  the  other,  and  held  it  fervently. 
For  a  minute  or  two  he  stood  silent  in  the  solemnity 
of  such  giving  joy.  In  those  instants  perhaps  these 
two  souls  were  nearer  to  each  other,  though  they  knew 
it  not,  than  common  souls  in  common  mood  can  be 
even  in  the  avowal  and  acceptance  of  what  such  call 
love ;  nearer  than  either  might  be  again  to  any  other, 
while  flesh  should  hold  them  darkling. 

Afterward  Jie  said,  "I  hope  you  will  see  Stacy  soon. 
A  friend  like  you  will  be  a  strength  for  her.  She  is 
younger  than  you,  spiritually.  Her  feet,  you  know, 
are  newly  set  in  the  upward  way." 

This  almost  went  beyond.  Something  that  Rebecca 
in  her  lowliness  struggled  with,  as  a  motion  of  the  old 
depravity,  rose  up  within  her  at  this  demand  from 
him.  For  she  could  not  help  —  saint  as  she  was  — 
her  own  clear,  native,  common-sense.  Stacy  was  a 
good  two  years  her  elder,  as  the  world  reckons.  A 
lifetime  beyond  her,  in  that  which  Rebecca  Gayworthy 
had  never  lived  at  all.  She  might  wish  her  well;  she 


WATCHING  AND-.W^.TIKG  101 

truly  did ;  honestly,  in  her  inmost  soul,  she  prayed  for 
her  the  prayer  of  self-forgetting  faith.  But  go  to 
her!  As  she  was  now!  In  the  fresh  exultation  of 
her  double  achievement,  for  this  world  and  the  next ! 
To  read,  and  to  be  read,  as  those  two  woman-souls 
would  surely  decipher  each  other,  and  to  utter  words 
of  spiritual  sympathy  and  earthly  congratulation! 
What  she  did  she  would  do  truly.  Not  this  now. 

"Stacy  has  better  strength  than  mine  to  lean  on; 
even  human.  She  will  not  need  me  yet.  If  ever  she 
does,  be  sure  I  will  not  fail  her.  Give  her  my  good 
wishes." 

This  was  all,  —  said  with  a  calm,  pure  smile. 
Nothing  to  answer,  nothing  that  he  need  translate  be 
yond  the  letter.  Yet  Gordon  King  knew  dimly,  as 
he  listened,  that  he  had  wronged  that  gracious  nature ; 
knew  yet  more  dimly  —  it  was  a  thought  away  back 
in  embryo  shadows  of  his  soul,  that  only  years  might 
give  a  form  wherewith  to  haunt  him  —  that  he  also 
wronged  himself. 

This  he  shook  off;  thanked  her  for  her  friendly 
words ;  pressed  once  again  the  hand  that  let  itself  lie 
passively  in  his ;  bade  her  good-night ;  and  passed  on, 
up  over  the  hill,  in  the  golden,  growing  starlight,  to 
Stacy's  home,  where  there  were  sweet  words,  and  be 
witching  looks,  and  winning  smiles,  and  willing  kisses 
waiting  him. 

Rebecca,  alone  under  the  still  heaven,  as  his  last 
quick  footfall  came  faintly  back  upon  her  ear,  took  up 
the  cross  that  lay  upon  her  path  and  went  away  to  God 
with  it. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

EBEN'S  COUP-D'E"TAT. 

ANY  one  who  had  been  by  chance  in  the  shadow  of 
fence  or  bush  by  the  lonely  roadside,  upon  a  certain 
August  morning,  as  Eben  Hatch  came  riding  back 
from  errands  to  the  blacksmith's,  and  at  the  village 
store  and  post-office  at  the  Bridge,  would  have  seen 
something  funny  and  rather  unaccountable.  If  Eben 
had  been  ten  years  old,  instead  of  six-and-twenty,  and 
if  it  had  been  in  the  previous  knowledge  of  the  looker- 
on  that  one  of  those  perambulating  caravans  of  won 
ders,  human  and  zoological,  that  make  their  appear 
ance  at  certain  intervals  in  our  quiet  New  England 
villages,  to  set  all  the  urchins'  brains  a-madding,  and 
their  bodies  more  often  than  otherwise  upside  down, 
and  to  paper,  gratis,  with  bright,  monstrous  pictured 
placards,  bar-rooms,  and  offices,  and  variety  shops,  had 
recently  sojourned  at  the  Bridge,  —  he  might  have 
thought  he  understood  the  secret  impulse  of  the  myste 
rious  and  comical  evolutions  he  would  have  so  beheld. 

Old  Chimsy  jogged  on  in  a  mild,  dignified  imper 
turbability  ;  perhaps  it  was  a  virtue  born  of  necessity, 
like  the  middle-aged  propriety  of  some  human  creatures 
under  otherwise  exhilarating  circumstances ;  they  would 
have  been  queer  antics,  indeed,  that  her  old  muscles 
could  have  executed ;  while  Eben,  upon  her  back,  the 
bridle  dropped  loosely  upon  her  mane,  an  unfolded  let 
ter  in  his  right  hand,  was  giving  vent  to  some  unwonted 
internal  excitement  in  a  series  of  gymnastics  that  one 
would  think  could  only  have  been  learned  in  the  Ring. 

Now,   with  a  long,  wide-mouthed  cachinnation,  he 


EBEN'S  COUP-D'ETAT.  103 

flung  himself  backward  till  his  shoulders  all  but  touched 
the  horse's  croup;  then,  flourishing  his  arms  with  a 
wild  exultation,  he  bounded  up  and  down  in  his  saddle ; 
and  presently,  with  a  sudden  "haw-haw,"  as  if  the 
overwhelming  joke,  whatever  it  might  be,  made  itself 
abruptly  palpable  in  a  new  and  utterly  irresistible  as 
pect,  he  performed  a  "right-about  face  "  unheard  of  in 
cavalry  tactics,  and  set  his  sun-burnt  nose  in  the  direc 
tion  of  Clumsy's  scraggy  and  wondering  tail.  Kesting 
but  an  instant,  however,  in  this  position,  he  made  a 
right-face  again,  bringing  himself  round  with  both  legs 
dangling  at  the  beast's  near  side;  and  here,  pushing 
his  straw  hat  up  with  both  hands,  in  one  of  which  the 
letter  still  rustled,  he  scratched  his  sun-browned  locks, 
and  with  the  unsubsided  grin  of  delight  yet  broadening 
his  honest  face,  gave  enigmatic  utterance  to  the  con 
clusion  of  this  ecstasy  of  inspiration :  — 

"Hooray !  That  '11  do !  That  '11  fetch  it !  I  '11  be 
—  buttered  —  if  it  won't!  " 

And  resuming  his  masculine  straddle,  he  stuffed  the 
missive  into  his  trousers'  pocket,  and  seizing  the  leath 
ern  bridle,  strapped  Clumsy's  neck  therewith,  rather 
as  a  mild  easing-off  for  his  own  effervescent  spirits 
than  in  any  hope  of  altering  a  gait  sublimely  unaffected 
by  all  that  had  foregone. 

When  he  arrived  at  home,  having  ridden  in  by  the 
lane,  and  left  his  horse  at  the  barn,  Huldah  was  out 
among  the  "groves."  You  know  what  I  mean,  of 
course :  among  the  lines  of  wet  sheets  and  tablecloths 
in  the  clothes-yard,  it  being  washing-day.  Eben  could 
see  her  stout-shod  feet  and  comely  ankles  cased  in  gray 
below  the  snowy  drop-scenes ;  and,  above,  her  brown 
hair  ruffled  by  the  breeze,  and  a  bit  of  flushed  fore 
head,  as  she  struggled  with  the  flapping  linen ;  for  the 
mountain  wind  was  vigorous. 

He    wisely   withheld    the    greeting    he  had    ready. 


104  THE  GAY  WORTHY S. 

Without  any  theory  about  it,  he  had  got  hold  of  this  bit 
of  practical  knowledge,  a  good  nest-egg  of  everyday 
wisdom  for  a  man  to  begin  life  with.  Women  are 
concentrative  in  their  natures.  They  bend  their  force 
upon  one  point  at  a  time,  and  that  intensely,  after  the 
manner  of  a  blow-pipe.  Huldah,  with  a  clothes-pin 
between  her  teeth,  might  give  an  answer  from  the  right 
or  wrong  side,  as  should  happen.  Large-hearted  and 
happy-natured,  she  would  never  sharpen  or  narrow  to 
vixenishness ;  yet  she  had  the  little  distinctive  ways  of 
her  sex,  for  all.  So  Eben  looked  at  her  as  he  went 
by,  reserving  his  fire ;  and  passed  on  into  the  out-room, 
where  he  found  his  brown  bread  and  apple-pie  and 
cheese  put  up  and  waiting  for  him  in  a  bright  tin  pail ; 
and  taking  this  in  his  hand,  turned  off  again,  marching 
away  to  his  field-work,  a  secretly  exultant  man,  with 
his  coup-d'etat  in  his  pocket. 

All  day  long  it  lay  there,  giving  him  boldness  and 
strength,  —  for  the  most  part.  A  momentary  reaction 
would  come,  now  and  then,  of  a  doubt  that  struck  him 
like  a  sudden  blow  with  the  thought,  "What  if  it 
shouldn't  work,  after  all?"  It  was  his  last  shot. 
Well,  if  it  missed,  he  would  know  at  any  rate  where 
he  was,  and  which  way  to  beat  retreat ;  the  fight  would 
be  over. 

"I  've  got  some  news  for  you,  Huldy, "  he  said,  as 
the  maiden  served  him  with  his  late  dinner,  on  his  re 
turn  from  the  distant  field.  She  looked  rosy  and  pretty 
enough,  after  her  cosmetics  of  vapor  and  breeze,  in  her 
tidy  out-room,  where  the  clothes,  dried  from  the  wash, 
lay  heaped  up,  white  and  rustling,  and  odorous  of  sweet 
cleanliness,  in  broad  willow  baskets ;  her  hair  smoothed 
and  a  clean  calico  gown  on,  and  a  smiling  grace  of 
readiness  upon  her  as  she  fetched  the  viands  from  the 
pantry;  her  energy  concentred  now  on  Eben's  comfort, 
and  secretly  upon  making  the  most  of  this,  their  little 
hour  of  rest  and  companionship. 


EBEN'S  COUP-D'ETAT.  105 

"I  've  got  some  news  for  you.  But  I  guess  't  '11 
keep." 

"Not  such  a  great  while,  I  '11  be  bound,  if  it  de 
pends  on  you.  Good  or  bad  ?  " 

"Well,  that's  as  you  take  it.  Kinder  middlin'. 
I  '11  tell  yer  to-night,  when  I  come  in  from  the  chores. 
Hain't  got  time  now.  It  's  consider'ble  of  a  story." 

Huldah  looked  at  him  over  one  shoulder,  as  she  went 
into  the  cheese-room.  There  was  a  sparkle  of  deter 
mination  in  his  eye,  and  a  certain  air  of  delayed  tri 
umph  about  him,  as  he  spoke,  that  gave  her  a  sudden 
thought  of  possible  personal  application  in  this  story 
that  should  be  coming. 

"He's  goin'  to  be  more  redick'lous  than  ever. 
That  's  what  it  is.  And  he  thinks  he  's  so  mighty 
cunnin'  about  it.  We'll  see,"  and  Huldah  sparkled 
too,  with  feminine  mischief,  and  made  a  pretty  bit 
of  picture,  that  nobody  beheld,  lit  with  gleams  from 
under  the  dark  eyelashes  and  from  between  the  ruddy 
lips,  as  she  laughed  to  herself  over  the  great  sage- 
cheese,  from  which  she  was  cutting  a  generous  wedge. 

Eben  ate  and  chuckled ;  and  watched  Huldah  in  and 
out  and  round  the  room,  as  if  she  were  a  little  bird  on 
which  he  could  put  a  cat's  paw  at  any  moment.  Hul 
dah  hopped  tamely  enough,  but  felt  her  wings  stealthily 
and  kept  every  feather  trimmed  and  ready  for  a  sud 
den  unfurling. 

"Concernin'  whom?"  she  asked  abruptly,  after  a 
long  pause,  filled  only  by  such  pantomime. 

"Oh,  the  news!  You're  thinkin'  of  that  yet,  are 
ye?  Well,  concernin'  me,  mostly.  Donno 's  anybody 
else  '11  care  about  it.  May  make  some  difference  to 
the  doctor.  I  '11  tell  yer  to-night.  Yer  '11  want  me 
to  help  stretch  them  sheets,  I  s'pose?  " 

Huldah  was  n't  quite  so  merry  and  comfortable  after 
Eben  went  out,  leaving  her  to  clear  up  the  dishes,  and 


106  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

ruminate  upon  his  words.  "  Difference  to  the  doctor  ?  " 
Could  it  be  that  somebody  was  enticing  him  away  from 
his  old  place  with  higher  wages  ?  Well,  if  Eben  could 
be  mean  enough  to  give  in  to  that,  he  might  go. 
There  'd  be  no  trusting  him  in  anything.  Huldah  was 
quite  angry  at  this  imagination.  And  even  when  she 
had  mentally  repudiated  it  as  impossible,  the  mischief 
came  no  more  back  to  eye  and  lip.  The  mystery  might 
be  perplexing,  but  it  was  no  longer  funny.  She  was 
off  the  scent  again,  and  off  her  guard.  So  much  the 
better  for  Eben. 

After  sundown,  when  the  chores  were  through,  and 
the  milk  strained  and  set  away,  they  took  up  the  little 
scene  again  where  they  had  broken  it  off. 

Huldah  had  been  sprinkling.  All  the  small  articles 
lay  piled  in  neat,  white  rolls  upon  her  fair  deal  table, 
and  only  sheets  and  table-linen  lay  waiting  in  the  big 
basket,  for  Eben,  as  he  always  did,  to  help  her 
"stretch."  His  rough  hands  were  scrupulously  clean 
for  the  operation ;  a  weekly  treat,  which  made  Monday 
evening  no  less  a  blessed  epoch  to  be  looked  forward 
to  by  the  simple  country  lover,  than  the  time-honored 
Sunday,  when  rural  swains  have  traditional  privilege 
to  get  themselves  up  in  their  best,  and  be,  otherwise, 
as  "redick'lous  "  as  may  please  them.  And  he  felt  so 
strong  to-night,  with  this  foreclosure  of  the  long  mort 
gage  he  had  held  on  Huldah' s  heart,  lying  snugly  in 
his  pocket ! 

"Well,  Huldy,  I  s'pose  yer  achin'  to  know?" 
This,  as  he  gathered  up  in  his  hands,  deftly  enough 
for  a  man,  the  folded  end  of  the  sheet  Huldah  offered 
him,  she  walking  off  at  the  same  time,  with  her  own, 
to  take  her  stand  opposite. 

"Folks  that  are  in  tribulation  themselves  never  see 
how  anybody  else  can  be  feelin'  easy,"  retorted  Hul 
dah,  turning  about  and  taking  the  cloth  by  the  double 
corners.  "Now,  then,  snap!" 


EBEN'S  COUP-D'ETAT.  107 

Up  went  their  arms  in  admirable  precision,  each 
pair  of  hands  uniting  themselves,  to  be  flung  apart  and 
downward  with  a  sudden  jerk,  and  a  mighty  concus 
sion  of  the  bellying  web  against  the  air. 

Huldah  felt  her  power  again,  and  her  courage  with 
it. 

There  was  something  illustrative  in  this  little  labor- 
pastime  of  theirs,  —  something  suggestive  in  its  like 
ness  to  their  daily  ways  of  going  on,  and  what  these 
were  at  last  to  come  to.  There  must  be  just  so  many 
snaps,  first  of  all ;  little  hearty  measurements  of  mu 
tual  strength  and  dexterity;  then  came  the  gathering 
up  in  earnest,  for  the  "pull,"  when  each  drew  away, 
apparently,  with  all  force,  from  the  other,  yet  taking 
care,  the  while,  to  hold  stoutly  by  the  good  bond  be 
tween,  lest  either,  failing,  should  so  get  the  worst  of  it ; 
then  the  final  folding,  bringing  them  nearer  and 
nearer,  hand  to  hand,  till  they  stood  close,  at  last,  face 
to  face,  with  their  shared  and  lightened  work  between 
them.  Eben  felt  the  secret  significance  and  symbol 
ism,  every  Monday  twilight  of  his  life,  though,  if  the 
clumsy  fellow  had  tried  to  put  it  into  words,  he  would 
never  assuredly  have  "fetched  it." 

"If  it '11  be  any  relief  to  your  mind,  speak  out," 
says  Huldah  again. 

Snap! 

"Oh,  it  'a  not  much,"  rejoins  Eben,  his  arms  going 
up  for  the  third  time. 

Snap! 

" Only"  —  gathering  up  for  the  tug  —  "I  got  a 
letter,  again,  this  morning,  from  my  cousin  out  in 
Illinois." 

A  long  pull,  —  a  pull  together,  —  and  a  pause ;  a 
little  twitch,  maybe,  of  anxiety  between  the  two  hearts, 
as  well. 

"And  he  wants  me  to  come  out  there  and  settle 
down." 


108  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

Another  strain,  as  if  each  would  tear  away  from  the 
other,  almost  in  anger ;  only  for  the  something,  woven 
too  strong,  that  held  them  bound,  and  that  neither 
would  let  go. 

"And  —  I've  pretty  much  made  up  my  mind  — 
when  the  crops  are  all  in  —  to  go." 

It  was  time  for  the  third  pull;  but  one  end  gave 
way  suddenly.  Huldah's  arms  fell,  and  Eben  tumbled 
up,  ingloriously,  against  the  cheese-room  door.  Must 
a  conqueror  necessarily  look  grand  and  graceful,  in  the 
actual  moment  of  victory  ? 

Huldah  laughed ;  but  it  was  an  odd  little  laugh,  — 
her  lips  all  a- quiver. 

They  gave  the  third  pull  in  silence,  somewhat 
feebly,  as  must  needs  be;  a  truer,  mightier  impulse 
counter-current  to  will  and  muscle,  urging  them, 
rather,  to  each  other's  arms.  Then  they  began  to 
fold.  Meeting  midway,  the  man,  the  victor,  looked 
down,  without  a  word,  upon  the  eyes  that  shrouded 
themselves  beneath  proud,  half -angry,  trembling  lids. 
They  felt  the  magnetism  and  flashed  up. 

"All  the  way  out  there?  "  says  she,  the  vanquished, 
with  a  voice  of  tears.  "Alone?  " 

"No,  by  thunder,  Huldy!  Not  if  you'll  go  with 
me !  "  And  the  strong  arms  seized  and  held  her. 
"  Consider 'ble  of  a  story  "  had  concentrated  all  its  es 
sence,  by  a  heart  chemistry,  into  a  few  pungent  words. 
The  white  folds  fell  to  the  floor.  There  was  no  inter 
position.  Eben  had  "fetched  it." 

A  day  or  two  after,  Joanna  stood  in  her  chamber, 
with  a  new  bonnet  in  her  hand,  just  sent  from  Selport. 
Pretty  enough,  but  what  use  now?  A  woman  has  but 
one  use  for  all  her  thousand  little  fripperies;  to  please 
the  eyes  she  loves. 

Joanna  fingered,  idly,  the  ribbons.  All  the  family 
had  seen  and  admired  it.  Now  it  was  going  back  into 


EBEN'S  COUP-D'ETAT.  109 

its  box.  She  wondered  if  she  should  ever  care  to  put 
it  on. 

Steps  came  up  the  stairs ;  Huldah  showed  herself, 
unwontedly,  at  the  door,  her  face  full  of  something 
she  had  to  say.  So  full,  evidently,  that  she  could  not 
quite  easily  begin;  so  she  stood  and  rolled  a  corner  of 
her  apron. 

Joanna  looked  up  in  somewhat  surprised  inquiry. 

"That's  a  dreadful  pretty  bunnet,"  says  Huldah, 
much  as  if  that  were  not  the  thing,  either. 

Joanna  wondered  what  strange  fit  of  idleness  and 
folly  had  come  over  the  brisk  and  busy  handmaid. 

"I  hate  to  be  too  curious,  Joanna,"  the  girl  re 
sumed,  a  little  desperately,  "but  would  you  mind 
tellin'  me  what  they  ask  you  for  such  a  bunnet  as  that, 
down  to  Selport  ?  " 

"Nine  dollars,"  replied  Joanna  quietly,  and  mar 
veled  again  within  herself,  what  next  ? 

Everything  else,  however,  seemed  frightened  out  of 
Huldah 's  head  at  that  amazing  statement.  She  stood 
still,  and  looked  at  Joanna,  with  eyes  that  appeared 
as  if  they  never  would  wink  again.  As  if  at  least, 
were  there  any  exaggeration  in  this,  they  meant  to  see 
through  it  first.  Evidently,  however,  Joanna  intended 
simply  what  she  had  said.  She  was  busying  herself 
with  a  little  bending  of  the  flowers,  and  a  little  perk 
ing  of  the  ribbons,  —  I  suppose  a  woman  would  do 
this,  mechanically,  though  she  was  about  to  lay  away 
the  finery  forever,  for  the  sake  of  a  lifelong  grief  be 
fallen  her,  —  and  gave  not  a  glance  after  her  words, 
to  note  their  effect. 

"Nine  dtillars!  Well,  they  ain't  bashful,  down 
there,  be  they  ?  Not  the  least  mite !  " 

Now,  Joanna  did  look  up  and  laugh.  "Why,  Hul 
dah,"  she  said,  "what  is  it?  Did  you  think  of  send 
ing  to  Selport  for  a  bonnet  ?  " 


110  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

"Well,  no,  — I  donno  's  I  did.  I  wasn't  thinkin' 
decidedly  of  anything.  Only  I  s'pose  I  might  as  well 
be  pricin'  things  a  little.  I  've  got  to  do  some  fixin' 
up  before  the  fall.  You  see, "  she  continued  hesitat 
ingly,  "I  never  calculated  to  live  out,  all  my  life. 
I  've  had  a  real  pleasant  home  here,  that  's  a  fact;  an' 
you  an'  Rebecca,  an'  Mis'  Vorse,  an'  the  doctor,  has 
been  just  like  my  own  folks  to  me.  But  everybody 
likes  a  little  change  of  some  kind,  now  and  then ;  and 
Ebenezer,  he's  got  to  be  so  redick'lous, — I  don't 
see  's  there  's  any  other  way  of  pacifyin'  him;  and  so 
—  I  've  pretty  much  made  up  my  mind  —  to  get  mar 
ried  and  try  that  awhile !  " 

These  two  brief  little  scenes,  homely  and  absurd  in 
the  letter  of  their  enactment,  yet  sweet  and  grand  in 
spirit,  with  the  blossoming  of  happy  love  and  faithful 
purpose,  forever  the  one,  identical,  divinely  beautiful 
thing  in  human  hearts  and  lives,  —  decided  and  an 
nounced  it  all.  After  the  crops  were  in,  —  a  couple 
of  months,  or  little  more,  hence,  —  Huldah  and  Eben 
were  to  take  each  other  by  the  hand  and  go.  Changes 
were  to  begin  at  the  Gay  worthy  farm.  Who  might 
guess  what  should  come  next  ? 

Meantime,  they  had  their  own  kite  to  fly,  now ;  and 
there  was  nothing  to  remind  them  that  they  had  ever 
helped  to  tie  a  bob  to  the  tail  of  anybody's  else. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"GABRIEL!  " 

MRS.  HARTSHORNE'S  plum-colored  silk  and  muslin 
pelerine  were  laid  out  on  the  bed  in  the  best  bedroom. 
The  very  cat,  walking  through,  would  have  known  by 
that,  that  it  was  Sunday  morning.  Old  Flighty  — 
named  in  colthood,  but  long  outgrown  the  correspon 
dence  to  her  title  (don't  Rose,  and  Lily,  and  Grace, 

—  yes,    even    Patience,    and    Charity,    and    Comfort, 
and  Frank,  and  Peter,   and  Felix,   and  Agnes,    come 
often  to  outlive  and  belie  theirs  also  ?)  —  stood  har 
nessed  in  the  wagon,  and  tied  to  the  front  fence ;   and 
Gabriel  was  in  the  garden,    gathering,    as  he  always 
had  done,  since  he  was  four  years  old,  a  Sunday  nose 
gay  for  his  mother,  of  late  pinks  and  sweetwilliam, 
and  southernwood,    and   ladies  -  delights,   and   bits  of 
coriander,    when  that   good   lady  came  reluctantly  to 
the  unusual  conclusion  that  she    "didn't  feel  hardly 
well  enough  to  go  to  meetin',  after  all." 

She  told  Gabriel  so,  when  he  came  in  with  his  ac 
customed  little  offering,  and  found  her  sitting  pale, 
uncertain,  and  unready,  a  strange  thing,  indeed,  for 
her,  by  the  kitchen  hearth.  The  farmer  was  shaving 
his  chin  by  the  looking-glass,  that  tilted  forward  from 
the  wall  between  the  windows,  and  bore  above  it  the 
common  and  morally  appropriate  country  decoration, 

—  a  bunch  of  peacocks'   feathers.      Somebody  always 
stayed  in  the  room  of   late  while  he  performed  this 
Sunday   morning   operation;    and   Gabriel   thought    at 
first  that  his  mother  had  only  thus  been  detained  from 
her  own  dressing. 


112  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

"There,  mother,"  he  said  cheerily, — he  was  al 
ways  tender  and  cheery  to  her,  the  manly,  gracious- 
hearted  fellow,  —  as  he  and  the  sunshine  came  in  to 
gether  at  the  garden  door,  "here  's  your  posy.  And 
you  won't  have  much  time  to  spare.  The  bell 's  just 
struck.  I'll  wait  here  to  see  you  off;  or  drive,  if 
you  and  father  like." 

The  old  man  turned  about  quickly,  as  Gabriel  seated 
himself.  There  was  an  angry,  suspicious  gleam  in  his 
eye. 

"What  are  ye  allers  waitin'  round  for,  hey?  Who 
yer  watchin'  of?  Can't  I  drive  ma'am  to  meetin 's 
well '  s  anybody  ?  " 

"You  and  father  'd  best  go  along  without  me,  I 
guess,"  said  Mrs.  Hartshorne.  "I  don't  feel  quite 
so  smart  as  common  to-day,  somehow." 

Then  Gabriel  looked  anxiously  in  his  mother's  face, 
and  noted  the  paleness  of  it.  He  began  to  say  that 
he  would  stay,  too ;  but  she  anticipated  his  words,  and 
stopped  him. 

"Mary  Makepeace  '11  be  at  home.  I  shan't  want 
anybody  else.  And  you  'd  best  both  go." 

Gabriel  saw  a  queer  look  flit  over  his  father's  face; 
an  expression  as  of  a  prisoner,  who,  through  the  inad 
vertence  or  mischance  of  a  keeper,  might  perceive  an 
opportunity  before  him.  He  had  been  very  restless, 
lately,  and  impatient  of  their  presence;  he  had  had 
constantly  an  eager,  watching  air,  as  if  what  he 
wanted  were  to  get  away.  From  the  beginning  of  the 
alteration  in  him,  this  had  been  its  peculiar  feature ; 
a  propensity  to  give  them  the  slip ;  to  make  strange, 
sudden  errands,  and  go  off  to  distances,  alone. 

Gabriel  wondered  if  his  mother  recollected  that  he 
could  not  sit  with  his  father  during  service,  —  that  he 
would  be  left  to  himself  in  the  great,  old-fashioned 
pew;  and  how  he  would  be  likely  to  comport  himself. 


"  GABRIEL !  "  113 

The  presence  of  others,  however  he  might  chafe  at  it, 
seemed  a  force  that  held  him  to  his  old  habits  of  out 
ward  demeanor.  Gabriel  had  found  him  quite  wild 
and  bewildered,  once  or  twice,  of  late,  when  he  had 
tracked  him  out,  in  his  ramblings  away  from  home. 
So  it  was  with  a  secret  apprehension  that  he  set  off 
with  him  to-day,  under  the  compulsion  of  circum 
stances,  and  in  obedience  to  the  wish  of  his  mother. 

The  church-bell  swung  sweet  and  solemn  on  the  air, 
as  they  drove  along;  it  seemed  to  pulse  forth  a  deep 
calm  that  should  reach  into  souls.  Old  Mr.  Harts- 
horne  looked  placidly  forgetful,  presently,  of  his  mo 
mentary  excitement,  and  seemed  to  fall,  involuntarily, 
into  the  old  Sabbath  mood.  Gabriel  took  courage. 
We  know  very  little,  I  think,  how  outward  sights  and 
sounds  and  habitudes  hold  us  safely  by  their  myriad 
fine  and  subtle  threads,  in  mental  poise.  How  the 
whole  creation  travaileth  with  us,  and  all  our  minutest 
relations  are  adjusted,  lest  a  single  human  soul  should 
lose  its  wonderful  balance  and  consciousness,  and  be  lost. 
Let  us  take  care  how  we  discard  and  break  away, 
despising,  in  our  presumption,  the  value  of  that  where 
with  God,  by  his  supremely  wise  ordination,  hath 
hedged  and  environed  us.  A  sharp  pain  —  an  in 
stant's  giddiness,  isolating  us  from  ordinary  percep 
tions  —  sets  earth  and  heaven  shattering  and  whirling 
to  our  thought.  A  calm  touch,  — the  glance  resting 
on  some  familiar,  insignificant  object,  —  a  gentle 
sound,  brings  back  the  delicate  equilibrium,  as  by 
electric  impulse,  to  the  disturbed  and  endangered 
brain.  We  know  not,  hourly,  how  we  are  saved,  or 
what  we  are  saved  from. 

It  is  from  an  instinct  of  the  spirit  which  touches 
upon  this  truth,  rather  than  from  any  definite  appre 
hension,  that  children  of  fine,  sensitive,  nervous  or 
ganization  dread  "the  dark."  I  hold  it  an  outrage 


114  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

and  a  cruelty  to  thrust  them  relentlessly  into  this  void 
they  shrink  from.  The  soul  craves  things  sensible 
and  local,  whereto  to  anchor  itself.  The  first  gift  of 
God  to  the  world  was  light;  the  dearest  promise  of 
Christ  is  that  He  prepares  a, place  for  us.  The  fearful 
threat  to  the  unworthy  is  "  outer  darkness ;  "  an  apos 
tle  hath  it  —  "  the  blackness  of  darkness  forever. " 
May  there  be,  perhaps,  an  awful  literalness  in  the 
phrasing  —  a  "lost  soul?" 

Old  Mr.  Hartshorne  rode  up  to  the  church-door, 
alighted,  and  walked  in,  like  any  other  of  the  comers. 
Gabriel  fastened  the  old  horse  under  the  shed,  and 
went  up  to  his  seat  among  the  singers. 

He  noticed,  as  he  glanced  down  toward  the  family 
pew,  his  father  fidget  a  little  with  the  hymn-books, 
and  then  settle  himself  more  quietly;  looking  round 
upon  his  neighbors  with  a  certain  expression  of  simple 
importance  and  self-appreciation,  such  as  a  child  might 
have,  sent  to  church,  exceptionally,  by  himself;  as  if 
he  said,  "You  see  I  am  quite  to  be  trusted."  Alter 
nating  with  willfulness  and  petulance,  and  vagary, 
there  often  showed  among  the  symptoms  which  Gabriel 
and  his  mother  watched  with  the  keen,  silent  eye  of 
anxious  love,  this  touching  air  of  half-conscious  liabil 
ity  to  go  somehow  wrong,  and  the  pride  of  refraining. 
God  only  knows  how  mind,  as  well  as  soul,  struggles 
and  clings,  before  it  goes  down,  borne  under  by  some 
fearful  influence  of  which  He  alone  who  permits  it 
can  understand  the  might. 

The  prayers  and  hymns  and  reading  of  holy  words 
began;  continued.  Gabriel  forgot,  by  and  by,  to  be 
uneasy,  seeing,  whenever  he  looked  that  way,  his  fa 
ther  quite  composed,  and  outwardly  himself.  There 
was  one  beside  him,  though,  who  read  his  every 
glance ;  who  felt  intuitively,  through  her  secret  sym 
pathy,  his  fears ;  who  watched  when  he  relaxed.  Ah ! 


"GABBIEL!"  115 

how  Joanna  Gayworthy  was  repenting  there,  that  day, 
that  she  had  not  seized,  when  he  had  half  offered  it, 
the  right  to  share  his  trouble,  and  help  him  in  his  care ! 
And  now,  it  was  too  late.  He  would  never  ask  again. 
He  had  only  been  betrayed,  as  it  were,  into  that  be 
ginning  of  an  avowal,  which  he  had  resolved  within 
himself  —  how  truly  she  read  him  now !  —  must  not 
be  uttered,  because  he  deemed  it  not  "fair  and  right 
to  ask,  as  things  were."  So  men  defraud  women  of 
their  dearest  rights ;  so  women  must  wait  silently,  in 
pain,  nor  dare  to  claim  them ! 

The  sermon  began.  It  was  a  "revival  discourse, " 
preached  by  a  stranger;  an  exhortation  unstinted  in 
all  the  technical  force  and  coloring  of  like  discourses 
as  such  professedly ;  sermons  that,  in  times  of  religious 
excitement,  it  used  to  be  common  for  men  gifted  in 
that  specialty  to  go  starring  about  with;  starring, 
some  of  them,  at  least,  it  is  to  be  feared,  too  much 
after  the  fashion  of  Samson's  foxes;  a  fearful  picture 
of  God's  wrath;  tremendous  warnings;  all  the  awful 
imagery  of  Ancient  Hebrew  Writ,  from  Sinai  to  the 
final  thunders  of  the  latest  prophet  of  that  olden  dis 
pensation;  reiteration  of  the  text,  —  "Escape  unto  the 
mountains ;  "  a  placing  of  God  and  man  over  against 
each  other,  —  the  One  upon  his  throne  of  judgment, 
the  other  quaking,  cowering,  beneath.  God's  Spirit 
was  there,  among  the  people,  doub.tless;  there  were 
hearts  in  that  assembly,  touched,  softened,  tender, 
who  had  come  up  asking  humbly,  secretly,  for  bread 
from  heaven  to  feed  their  needs.  But  this  man,  — 
did  he  not  rather  hurl  stones  among  them?  There 
were  souls  awestruck,  scared ;  there  were  nerves 
thrilled,  brains  fevered,  as  they  listened ;  was  there  a 
single  spirit  won  back  into  the  Father's  bosom?  Oh, 
be  careful,  ye  who  come  with  Law  and  Gospel  in 
either  hand,  and  on  your  lips  cursing  and  blessing;  be 


116  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

careful  how  ye  apportion,  and  mete  out,  and  construe. 
It  is  a  fearful  thing  to  deal  recklessly  with  the  feeble 
minds  and  hesitating  hearts  of  men !  How  know  ye 
what  ye  may  be  doing  with  those  differently  and  deli 
cately,  perhaps  perilously,  attuned  moods  and  vital 
crises  of  human  experience  ? 

"Escape  for  your  life!  Escape  unto  the  moun 
tains  !  " 

The  voice  rang  out  once  again  —  startlingly,  sono 
rously.  A  hand  reached  over,  almost  in  the  same  mo 
ment,  and  laid  itself  with  a  quick  pressure  on  Gabriel 
Hartshorne's  arm.  A  hurried  breath  came  with  it,  — 

"Gabriel!      Your  father!" 

The  young  man  leaped  to  his  feet;  gave  one  look 
below;  the  pew  was  empty.  There  was  a  stir  of 
heads ;  a  pause  in  the  preaching,  and  Squire  Lawton 
and  Deacon  Gibson  were  moving  quickly  toward  the 
door.  Gabriel  sprang  to  the  gallery  stairs  and  rushed 
down. 

This  was  what  had  happened.  The  poor,  misty  brain 
that  had  been  soothed  by  the  Sunday  bells,  and  by 
hymns  and  prayers,  half  followed,  perhaps,  but  lifting 
in  a  dim  way,  his  instincts  to  the  One  Strength  and 
Safety,  had  felt  a  hot,  sudden  quiver  at  the  first  ut 
terance  of  those  detached  words  which  the  preacher 
had  separated  from  their  connection  and  chosen  for  his 
text.  They  had  struck  upon  and  chimed  dangerously 
with  the  morbid  prehension  of  his  mind.  The  old 
man  moved  himself  along  the  seat,  to  where  the  win 
dow  recessed  itself  into  the  wall,  and  stood  open,  let 
ting  in  the  summer  air.  He  looked  out,  away,  upon 
the  everlasting  hills  that  framed  the  glowing  land 
scape.  So  gazing,  — his  mind  and  fancy  wandering 
toward  their  mysterious  distances,  — his  ears  took  in 
mechanically  the  burning,  urgent  words  of  the  sermon. 
He  felt  no  religious  fear;  but,  as  the  sentences  fell, 


"GABRIEL!"  117 

they  played  upon  that  one  diseased  chord ;  they  stirred 
wildly,  like  fierce  music,  that  physical,  unreasoning 
impulse.  He  moved  his  head,  with  quick,  short, 
furtive  turns,  to  right  and  left.  He  watched  for  a 
moment  when  no  eye  should  be  upon  him ;  he  changed 
his  place,  softly,  again,  and  seated  himself  in  the 
window,  with  his  arm  upon  the  sill.  Then  he  held 
himself  innocently  quiet,  for  some  moments,  with  the 
cunning  of  actual,  developed  insanity,  looking  round 
upon  the  near  neighbors  who  had  noticed  his  movement, 
with  a  peculiarly  open,  placid  expression,  till  they 
turned  their  eyes  away,  and  he  felt  himself  again 
alone. 

Close  by,  outside,  pulling  at  her  halter,  and  utter 
ing  now  and  then  a  quick,  impatient  whinny,  stood 
Newell  Gibson's  fiery,  half -broken  young  mare,  har 
nessed  to  a  light  gig.  She,  too,  wanted  to  get  away. 
Every  suggestion  of  word  and  scene  —  even  of  animal 
sound  and  movement,  at  once  an  incentive,  with  its 
blind,  brute  sympathy,  and  a  prompting  to  new,  wild 
purpose  —  conspired,  strangely  and  fatally,  to  quicken 
the  old  man's  fast  maddening  fancy. 

He  was  spied  upon,  — he  was  restrained.  He  knew 
he  was  going  wrong,  and  he  could  not  help  himself. 
"Escape?  "  It  was  just  what  he  wanted  to  do. 

The  impassioned,  vehement  sentences  of  the  dis 
course  swept  on.  There  was  a  breathless  hush  in  the 
old  church.  All  eyes,  save  the  straying  eyes  of  chil 
dren,  —  and  by  this  time  many  of  these  were  shut  in 
sleep,  —  were  fixed  upon  the  speaker.  He  lifted  his 
left  arm,  and  stretched  it  out,  right  over  toward  those 
blue,  shadowy  peaks  that  filled  the  horizon,  and  the 
words  pealed  forth  again :  — 

"Escape!  Escape,  for  your  life!  Look  not  behind 
you,  nor  stay  in  all  the  plain !  Escape  unto  the  moun 
tain,  lest  ye  be  consumed !  " 


118  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

There  was  a  sudden  sound,  —  a  leap  outside ;  people 
started,  and  turned.  It  was  at  this  instant  that 
Joanna  had  touched  Gabriel's  arm. 

When  he  reached  the  great  outer  door  of  the  meet 
ing-house,  —  springing  down  the  last  six  steps  of  the 
steep  gallery-stairs  and  dashing  across  the  vestibule, 
—  he  saw  Newell  Gibson's  mare  fling  herself  by,  at  a 
gallop,  the  light  gig  rocking  and  bounding  after  her, 
down  the  hill.  His  father  sat  in  the  frail  vehicle, 
erect,  his  gray  hair  floating  back  in  the  wind  from  his 
uncovered  head. 

Gone!      To  his  death?     It  seemed  so. 

Another  sound  of  wheels  came  round  the  building,  — 
Squire  Lawton  and  Deacon  Gibson,  in  the  squire's 
open  wagon.  They  pulled  up,  for  an  instant,  as  they 
saw  Gabriel  standing  pale,  horrified,  uncertain  for  the 
moment,  on  the  stone  step  before  the  door. 

"Will  ye  get  in,  Gabe?  "  The  deacon  spoke  with 
the  sudden,  undefined  distance  in  his  familiar  address, 
that  people  assume  instinctively  toward  one  fearfully 
stricken.  "We  '11  do  the  best  we  can.  'Pon  my  soul, 
I  'm  sorry  for  ye !  " 

"Come  with  me,"  said  another  voice  at  his  side. 
"It  '11  do  no  harm  to  be  a  minute  or  two  behind.  We 
mustn't  make  a  chase  of  it."  Dr.  Gayworthy  ad 
dressed  the  last  words  to  the  two  men  in  the  wagon. 
"You  'd  better  take  the  turnpike,  over  to  the  crossing; 
and  drive  as  fast  as  you  please.  We  '11  follow  the  old 
gentleman." 

Gabriel  turned  mutely,  and  accompanied  the  doctor 
to  his  chaise. 

There  was  no  word  spoken  between  them  as  they 
followed,  along  windings  and  descents,  the  headlong 
course  of  the  runaway  animal ;  noting  the  tracks  of  her 
fierce  hoofs  that  had  clutched  the  gravel  in  mad  leaps, 
and  the  swerving  traces  of  the  wheels,  as  the  vehicle 


"GABBIEL."*  119 

had  swayed  from  side  to  side  of  the  narrow  country 
road,  most  marvelously  escaping  immediate  overturn. 
What  should  they  find  at  last  ?  For  nearly  a  mile  the 
road,  though  in  no  part  actually  precipitous,  tended 
downward  all  the  way,  —  no  great  length  visible  before 
them  at  any  given  point.  Beyond  this,  a  long  ascent 
traced  itself  to  clear  view  up  the  slopes  of  an  opposite 
hill ;  and  there,  presently,  if  it  were  possible  that  horse 
and  vehicle  should  hold  so  long  together,  they  would 
again  catch  glimpse  of  them.  Over  that  hill,  also,  at 
right  angles,  stretched  the  turnpike,  crossing  just  be 
neath  the  brow  upon  the  hither  side.  There  lay  the 
bare  chance  of  safety.  If  the  two  who  had  gone  that 
shorter  way  could  head  the  creature,  slackened  in  her 
speed  with  taking  the  long  hill,  it  might  yet  be  well. 
But  the  still,  white  line  lay  dustily  distinct  against  the 
green  mountain-side,  and  nothing  moved  upon  it  yet. 
Something  must  have  already  happened.  There  was 
an  ugly  turn  by  the  brook,  and  the  bridge  was  narrow. 
Gabriel  grew  paler  as  they  came  down  into  the  shaded 
hollow,  still  following  the  wild  trail  that  must  end  soon, 
and  losing  sight,  now,  of  the  way  beyond. 

Up  in  the  meeting-house,  —  the  momentary  disturb 
ance  externally  composed,  —  the  minister  was  closing 
his  discourse  to  restless  ears  that  listened  no  longer ; 
and  men  and  women  waited  feverishly  through  the 
short  prayer  and  benediction,  unheeding  either,  in  the 
eager  human  interest  that  had  laid  hold  of  them.  All 
the  little  world  of  Hilbury  knew  that  half-kept  secret 
of  the  Hartshorne  farmhouse,  now. 

Gabriel  thought  of  it,  even  in  those  short  instants 
of  dread ;  thought  of  Joanna  in  her  seat  there  in  the 
gallery ;  felt  still  the  touch  of  her  hand  upon  his  arm, 
and  the  friendly  sympathy  of  it  in  his  soul.  He  could 
never  sit  and  sing  there  with  her  again.  If  his  father 
lived,  he  must  never  leave  him  now. 


120  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

So  they  kept  their  way  down,  —  silent,  breathless, 
—  to  where  they  came  upon  it  all.  The  shattered  gig, 
thrown  on  its  side,  crashed  up  against  the  handrail  of 
the  bridge,  where  it  seemed  to  have  been  dragged  and 
caught,  —  a  broken  shaft  and  splinters  of  the  whiffle- 
tree  lying  beyond,  —  some  bits  of  torn  harness,  —  the 
horse  gone.  This  side  the  brook,  across  a  decayed  log 
overgrown  to  a  bank  with  moss  and  weeds,  a  prostrate 
figure,  —  and  a  gray  head  flung  back,  with  closed  eyes. 
One  arm  lay  bent  beneath  the  body. 

Gabriel  raised  the  poor,  brain  -  sick,  unconscious 
head,  and  held  it  against  his  breast.  Kind,  skillful 
hands  moved  and  manipulated  body  and  limbs ;  draw 
ing,  carefully,  the  limp  arm  from  its  unnatural  posi 
tion. 

"Both  bones  of  the  fore-arm  broken.  And  that 
seems  all.  That,  and  falling  just  here,  is  what  has 
saved  him."  These  were  the  first  words  spoken. 

"  Saved  him,  —  for  what  ?  "  groaned  Gabriel,  his 
long  trouble  speaking  itself,  at  last,  from  pale,  dry 
lips,  and  imploring  eyes. 

"We'll  hope,"  said  the  doctor  cheerily.  "And 
now,  I  'd  rather  he  wouldn't  come  to  till  we  can  get 
him  home.  He  won't  remember  how  it  came  about ; 
and  that 's  better.  There  's  the  wagon." 

"If  my  mother  only  mightn't  know  it  all!"  cried 
Gabriel. 

She  never  did. 


CHAPTER  X. 

ANOTHER    WEEK. 

GABRIEL,  leaning  over  his  father's  bed,  heard  the 
click  of  the  bones  as  they  came  into  place  under  the 
doctor's  grasp.  At  the  same  moment  the  old  man 
opened  his  eyes.  There  was  a  quieter  look  in  them, 
though  with  a  vague  amaze,  than  they  had  worn  for 
long. 

"Where  am  I?  What  ye  doin'  to  me?  "  he  asked 
feebly. 

"You  've  had  an  accident,  and  hurt  your  arm.  Lie 
still,"  replied  the  doctor. 

"An accident?  I  donno  nothin'  about  it.  Where  's 
ma'am?  " 

"I'm  here,"  said  his  wife,  standing  on  the  other 
side.  But  her  white  face  grew  whiter  as  she  spoke, 
and  she  would  have  dropped,  if  Mary  Makepeace  had 
not  held  her. 

"She  's  clear  beat  out;  and  her  head  's  been  bad  all 
day,  and  she  must  go  to  bed,  herself,  this  minute," 
said  Mary  Makepeace,  leading,  or  mostly  lifting,  her 
along.  Mrs.  Hartshorne  yielded  in  a  sick  dizziness 
that  made  the  faces  round  her  all  turn  strange,  and  the 
look  of  the  kitchen,  as  she  moved  across  it  to  the  little 
bedroom  on  the  other  side,  like  a  place  she  had  never 
been  in  before ;  and  presently  the  doctor  stood  by  her, 
in  turn,  feeling  her  pulse  gravely,  and  ordered  that 
nobody  should  talk  to  her,  and  that  all  the  questioning 
neighbors  in  the  front  room  should  be  told  to  go  away ; 
and  promised  that  Prue  should  come  over,  directly, 
with  something  that  she  must  take. 


122  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

So  that  week  began. 

A  week  of  ceaseless  watching,  and  nursing,  and  fear. 
Gabriel,  except  his  coat,  had  never  his  Sunday  clothes 
off,  through  it  all.  They  couldn't  keep  it  from  the 
old  man  that  his  wife  was  very  ill.  That,  and  the 
corporeal  shock  which  he  had  suffered,  seemed  to  sus 
pend  the  workings  of  diseased  fancy.  He  lay  in  a 
childish  sort  of  contented  helplessness,  asking,  now  and 
then,  how  "ma'am"  was,  and  "when  she  was  coming." 
In  all  this  time  he  recollected  nothing,  apparently,  of 
that  which  he  himself  had  done.  How  it  would  be 
with  him  by  and  by,  the  doctor  could  not  promise; 
though  he  still  said,  "We  '11  hope."  For  the  present, 
he  was  simply,  as  it  were,  benumbed,  subdued. 

Joanna  Gayworthy  was  angry  in  her  secret  heart 
with  Prue,  for  the  privilege  she  had  of  entering  fear 
lessly  the  afflicted  home,  and  ministering  there,  day 
and  night.  Because  she  was  a  widow,  and  almost 
forty,  she  could  do  it.  She  was  "just  the  person  to 
be  there,"  as  people  said.  What  great  difference  did 
the  years  make  ?  She  felt  herself  grown  old  enough, 
of  late,  if  that  were  all.  And  her  hopeless  life  looked 
to  her  like  a  long  widowhood  just  entered.  But  she 
must  sit  at  home,  —  she  and  Rebecca,  whom  she  al 
most  hated,  too,  for  her  calmness, : —  and  keep  down  all 
her  restless  thoughts  and  questionings,  and  not  dare 
even  to  ask  what  "she  most  wanted  to  be  told,  when 
the  others  now  and  then  came  in;  seeming  indifferent 
almost,  through  fear  of  showing  too  much.  She 
wanted  to  know  how  Gabriel  looked,  and  what  he 
said;  she  wanted  to  know  if  anybody  said  words  of 
comfort  to  him,  now  and  then,  as  there  ought  to  be 
somebody  to  do ;  if  anybody  made  him  eat  and  rest ; 
or  whether  he,  too,  were  wearing  himself  ill,  with  no 
body  to  notice.  She  wanted,  — oh,  this  was  not  half! 
What  her  woman's  heart  wanted  was  to  go  to  him,  in 


ANOTHER  WEEK.  123 

spite  of  all ;  to  take  her  stand  beside  him ;  to  tell  him 
that  his  pain  was  her  pain,  and  that  she  had  come  to 
bear  it  with  him,  for  that  she  would  not  be  divided 
from  him  now!  What  a  strange  world  and  way  we 
live  in!  This  she  did  not  do;  she  held  herself  back 
with  a  fierce  might,  because  she  must;  because  the 
words  had  never  been  spoken,  — because  she  had 
stopped  them,  frivolously,  when  she  knew  they  were 
on  his  lips,  —  that  should  have  given  her  this  right ; 
because  what  another  like  her  might  have  done,  in 
simple  neighborly  kindness,  it  was  quite  impossible  for 
her,  with  her  secret  consciousness,  to  do. 

Prue  came  and  went ;  Rebecca  asked,  sometimes,  if 
she  could  not  do  something  to  help  or  relieve  her. 
Prue  always  answered,  "No;  it  was  not  necessary. 
She  and  Mary  Makepeace  were  getting  along  quite 
well."  Joanna,  if  she  had  dared  to  say  one  word  at 
all,  —  she  thought  so  to  herself,  —  would  never  have 
been  put  off  in  that  tame  way ! 

"About  the  same!"  Who  has  not  known  the 
agonizing  insignificance  and  delay  of  that  sick-room 
bulletin,  which  denies  not  hope,  yet,  day  by  day,  lets 
fear  settle  down  more  heavily  ?  Gabriel  heard  it  from 
the  doctor,  at  each  frequent  visit ;  Prue  repeated  it  in 
the  intervals  at  each  asking  look  from  him,  and  to  the 
old  man's  queries.  "Will  nobody  tell  me  anything 
more  ?  "  his  thought  questioned  bitterly.  Yet  he  dared 
not  press  them  to  say  more. 

Joanna  heard  it  till  she  ceased  to  make  inquiry. 
"What  is  the  use?"  she  cried  out,  vehemently,  to 
Rebecca.  "They  won't  tell  anything,  till  it  tells  it 
self." 

That  day  came.  On  Saturday,  Prue  came  back, 
needed  no  more. 

"Here,  mother,  is  your  posy,"  Gabriel  said  again, 
through  sobs,  on  Sunday,  kneeling  at  her  side.  They 


124  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

were  the  last  week's  withered  flowers.  He  found 
them  in  his  mother's  drawer  with  the  folded  muslin 
pelerine  as  she  had  put  them  away,  —  who  knows  with 
what  foreboding?  He  laid  them  reverently  on  the 
dead  hands  that  never  would  reach  out  for  posy  more, 
and  went  away  into  the  garden,  to  gather  her  yet  one, 
the  last. 

On  Monday,  all  the  neighbors  came,  from  all  the 
country-side,  and  the  church  bell  tolled,  and  they  bur 
ied  her. 

When  everybody  else  was  there,  Joanna  could  come 
too.  Yes,  like  any  common  curious  acquaintance,  — 
the  motherless  girl  who  had  loved  Gabriel's  mother 
secretly,  as  if  she  were  her  own.  To  stand  there  in 
the  hushed  and  crowded  parlor,  to  hear  the  prayer, 
and  to  struggle  against  tears,  till  she  looked,  and  won 
dered  if  she  were  grown  cold,  and  stony,  and  unfeel 
ing;  to  see  Gabriel  go  by,  with  bared  head,  unwit 
ting  of  her  presence,  separated  from  her  and  all  by 
the  sacred  isolation  of  his  great  grief,  and  then  to  go 
home,  having  never  said  a  word  to  him  through  all, 
since  she  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  called  him 
by  his  name,  a  week  ago,  in  the  church  gallery. 

The  old  man  wept  feebly  when  Gabriel  told  him 
tenderly  that  they  had  lost  her.  Then  he  grew  quieter 
than  before,  scarcely  speaking;  and  seemed  to  notice 
little  of  what  went  on  about  him.  He  slept  a  good 
deal,  during  the  next  two  days.  It  was  on  Tuesday, 
just  at  evening,  that  he  turned  his  head,  with  an  ear 
nest  look,  toward  Gabriel,  as  he  sat  by  the  bedside ; 
and  spoke,  slowly,  most  like  one  awaking  from  a 
dream. 

"Well.      She  's  gone.      Ain't  she ?  " 
Gabriel  bent  his  head  and  groaned,    "Ay!  " 
"Yes.      She  's  gone.      She  can't  take  care  of  me, 
And     I  'm,  —  Gabriel,  —  there  's    something 


ANOTHER  WEEK.  125 

slipping  away  from  me,  like.  I  've  felt  as  if  it  was 
a-goin',  this  long  time.  But  I  've  held  on.  Yes,  I  've 
held  on.  I  did  n't  want,  — Gabriel,  — oh  dear!  to 
give  quite  up  and  let  it  go.  And  so  I  've  been  con 
trary  and  fractious.  I  ain't  now.  But  it's  going; 
and  there  's  something  I  want  to  say  to  you,  Gabriel, 
first,  quick.  You  mustn't  let  me  plague  you,  when 
I  get  worse.  Send  me  away  somewhere;  I  wanted, 
sometimes,  to  get  off;  there's  places,  you  know, — 
where  they  take  care  of  folks  —  that  —  go  out  of 
their  minds !  " 

He  said  these  last  words  in  a  whisper,  as  if  so,  in 
the  avowal  of  his  strange,  secret  consciousness,  he 
gathered  up  the  last  strength  of  his  failing  faculties, 
at  the  moment  he  also  let  go  the  sole  cord  holding  him 
to  safety;  and  looked  up  into  his  son's  face  with  an 
expression  at  once  bewildered,  helpless,  pleading,  and 
defiant. 

Then  the  young  man  stood  up,  in  his  strength. 

"Father,"  he  said  calmly,  "I  don't  think  that  is 
going  to  happen  to  you.  And  —  whether  or  no  —  here 
I  am ;  and  here  I  stay,  and  stand  by  you,  as  long  as 
we  both  live ;  and  no  man  —  nor  woman  —  shall 
hinder,  or  come  between.  So  help  me,  God !  " 

The  poor,  harassed  intellect  that  was  just  casting 
itself  adrift  caught  at  the  brave,  loving  words  of 
promise  and  struggled  back.  The  old  man  laid  his 
hand  —  the  one  hand  he  could  move  —  in  Gabriel's. 
His  eye  softened.  There  came  a  tenderness  into  it 
—  a  trust  —  a  gleam  of  peace.  "Will  you?  "  he  said 
in  such  a  tone  as  a  child  might.  "You  was  always  a 
good  boy,  Gabriel !  " 

"He  has  passed  a  mental  crisis,"  Dr.  Gayworthy 
said,  afterward.  "He  will  never  be  quite  himself 
again.  But  the  trouble  has  taken  a  different  turn. 
He  may  live  for  years,  —  the  longer  for  this  feeble- 


126  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

ness  of  brain,  in  fact,  —  and  be  no  worse  than  he  is 
now." 

This,  then,  was  the  likelihood  that  lay  in  the  fu 
ture.  And  Mr.  Hartshorne,  though  I  have  spoken  of 
him  as  his  neighbors  did,  —  and  as  it  is  the  fashion  of 
New  England  country-folks  to  speak,  even  of  a  man 
of  forty,  if  he  have  a  son  arrived  at  manly  estate,  — 
was  not,  literally,  an  old  man;  he  was  yet  under 
sixty.  He  might  live  twenty  years. 

Yet  Gabriel  Hartshorne,  with  never  a  thought  of 
the  how  long,  bound  a  vow  upon  his  heart,  and  took 
up  this,  his  cross. 

The  next  Sunday  there  were  prayers  in  church,  for 
"the  young  brother,  sorely  and  doubly  stricken." 

Nobody  prayed  for  Joanna.  But  she  prayed,  —  she 
who  best  knew  how,  — out  of  her  pain,  — for  him. 

Also,  that  same  day,  the  banns  of  marriage  were 
published  between  Anastasia  Lawton  and  Gordon  King. 

I  have  not  done  with  my  two  young  sisters.  But 
this  —  the  story  of  their  youth  —  is  told.  Many  a 
life-story  ends  to  human  knowledge  as  abruptly.  Fate 
does  not  round  and  finish  all,  in  the  first  few  years  of 
mortal  experience.  Things  don't  go  on,  in  eventful 
succession,  day  by  day,  in  the  real  years,  as  they  do, 
page  by  page,  in  a  novel.  God  gives  us  intervals ;  and 
we  can  neither  skip  nor  turn  the  leaves  faster  than 
they  write  themselves.  Threads  drop  midway  in  the 
web,  and  only  the  Heavenly  Weaver  can  find  or  reunite 
them.  We  wait,  and  grow  gray  with  waiting,  for  the 
word,  the  seeming  accident,  the  trifle,  that  may  or 
may  never  —  He  knows  —  come  into  the  monotony  of 
our  chilled  existence,  and  alter  it  all  for  us ;  joining  a 
living  fibre  once  again,  that  may  yet  thrill  with  joy, 
to  that  we  lost,  far  back  in  the  old  Past,  wherein  it 
throbbed  so  keenly. 

But  you  will  know,  now,  as  you  see  them  so,  while 


ANOTHER  WEEK.  127 

younger  lives  press  forward  to  the  front  and  claim  the 
fresher  interest,  — how  it  came  to  pass  that,  years 
after,  there  were  these  two  maiden  sisters,  counting 
uneventful  days  in  the  old  home  at  Hilbury. 

All  that  most  people  knew  was  that  "there  had  been 
once,  folks  thought,  a  sort  of  kindness  between  Gabriel 
Hartshorne  and  Joanna  Gayworthy,  but  it  never  came 
to  anything;  and  after  his  father's  mind  failed,  and 
his  mother  died,  he  seemed  to  give  up  all  thoughts  of 
marrying,  and  just  settled  down  to  taking  care  of  the 
old  man  and  looking  after  the  farm.  As  to  Rebecca, 
she  never  was  anyway  like  other  young  people.  She 
was  a  born  saint,  if  the  Lord  ever  made  one." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

MRS.    GAIR    WRITES    HOME. 

THREE  years  after,  Mrs.  Vorse  sat  reading  a  letter, 
one  day.  This  was  it :  — 

DEAR  SISTER  PRUE,  — The  golden  russets  and  the 
butter  came  safely  to  hand.  Thank  father  for  them, 
with  my  love.  I  write  my  letter  to  you,  because  I 
have  owed  you  one  this  long  time ;  and  because  I  have 
some  things  to  say,  a  little  particularly,  to  yourself. 
I  could  not  match  your  silk  near  enough;  the  old  gros 
and  granites  are  all  gone  out  of  existence ;  but  I  have 
taken  the  liberty  to  manage  for  you  according  to  my 
own  judgment,  and  have  used  the  money  you  sent  to 
wards  a  full  dress  pattern  of  new,  plain  silk.  What 
was  wanting  I  made  up,  and  wish  you  would  accept  it 
as  a  little  present  from  me.  Joanna  is  well,  but  I 
don't  think  she  is  altogether  contented.  I  am  afraid 
I  shan't  make  out  to  keep  her  much  longer.  What 
under  the  sun,  I  wonder,  can  make  a  girl  like  her  want 
to  stay,  year  in  and  year  out,  in  a  place  like  Hilbury  ? 
She  '11  go  back,  anyway,  in  February.  That  she 's 
determined  on,  and  when  she  has  once  made  up  her 
mind  to  a  thing,  she's  as  "set  as  a  meeting-house." 
To  tell  the  truth,  the  meeting-house  seems  to  be  at  the 
bottom  of  it;  she  thinks  she  never  can  be  spared  out 
of  that  singing-gallery.  You  have  lost  a  good  many 
of  your  leading  singers,  one  way  and  another,  within 
a  few  years,  to  be  sure ;  Eliza  Prouty  being  married, 
and  Stacy  Lawton,  and  Gabriel  Hartshorne  giving  up 
that,  as  he  has  everything  else,  to  take  care  of  his 


MRS.  GAIR  WRITES  HOME.  129 

father.  Well,  he  has  been  faithful  to  his  duty,  if  a 
son  ever  was.  Joanna  tells  me  —  I  get  things  out  of 
her  hy  degrees  with  questions,  though  she  don't  some 
how  run  the  news  right  off  the  reel  as  she  used  to; 
she's  sobered  down  wonderfully  —  that  they  come  to 
meeting  regularly  together,  and  sit  there  in  the  old 
pew,  and  that  the  old  man  keeps  close  to  Gabe,  and 
sits  half  the  time  holding  his  hand,  as  if  he  couldn't 
be  near  enough  or  have  enough  of  him ;  and  that,  com 
munion  days,  Gabriel  takes  the  bread  from  the  plate, 
and  gives  it  to  his  father,  and  holds  the  cup  to  his  lips ; 
and  that  one  day,  the  old  man  broke  the  bit  of  bread 
in  two,  and  gave  half  of  it  back  to  Gabe,  just  as  a 
baby  might  put  the  spoon  up  to  its  mother,  feeding  it ; 
and  Gabe  took  it,  and  looked  at  it  a  minute,  with  a 
face  as  if  the  tears  were  coming,  and  then  ate  it; 
though  he  is  n't  a  church-member.  I  got  this  out  of 
her,  by  asking  first  one  thing  and  then  another  about 
how  they  managed,  and  saying  things  myself,  until  she 
warmed  up  all  at  once,  as  if  she  couldn't  help  it,  and 
told  me  the  story;  and  then  she  stopped  herself  in  a 
sudden,  provoked  kind  of  way,  and  would  n't  say  an 
other  word  about  anybody.  She  does  hate  so  what  she 
calls  Hilbury  gossip.  Well,  here  I  am,  running  on 
about  Hilbury  folks,  —  I  always  do  when  I  get  a-going, 
—  and  forgetting  my  particular  business.  I  think, 
and  so  does  Mr.  Gair,  that  father  might  let  Gershom 
come  down  here  this  spring  and  make  us  that  visit. 
He  was  to  have  come,  you  know,  three  years  ago,  only 
Eben  and  Huldah  went  away,  and  you  all  thought  he 
couldn't  be  spared.  I  suppose  he  couldn't;  but  some 
mothers  would  have  worked  it,  somehow.  I  think,  if 
anything,  Prue,  you  're  a  little  too  conscientious  about 
making  Gershom  do  all  and  more  than  father  seems  to 
expect  of  him.  Father  is  getting  old,  now;  and  old 
folks  are  apt  to  be  a  little  one-sided  and  unreasonable 


130  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

if  you  humor  them  in  everything.  And  it  isn't  quite 
fair  to  the  boy,  in  more  ways  than  one.  He  ought  to 
see  something  of  the  world,  to  begin  with ;  and  besides, 
folks  will  think,  maybe  (I  say  it  because  I  know  so 
well  what  you  really  are,  and  how  you  would  despise 
anything  that  was  not  more  than  above-board),  that 
you  are  keeping  him  hanging  round,  with  some  hopes 
about  the  property.  I  think,  most  likely,  father  would 
be  willing  to  let  him  come  now,  when  he  gets  through 
at  Winthorpe  Academy ;  and  he  will  have  a  little  time 
to  spare  between  that  and  college,  if  you  and  father 
have  quite  settled  that  he  is  to  go;  which  I  wouldn't, 
unless  the  boy's  own  mind  was  bent  upon  it ;  it  does 
more  harm  than  good,  otherwise.  To  tell  the  truth, 
though  I  know  father  makes  everything  of  him,  I  don't 
know  that  it  might  not  be  just  as  well  to  let  him  see 
that  you  and  Gershom  don't  take  it  entirely  for  granted 
that  he  is  to  provide  for  him.  I  shouldn't  say  as 
much,  so  plainly,  to  everybody;  but  I  know  you  are 
so  independent  that  you  would  never  bear  to  seem  any 
thing  else,  and  I  should  feel  just  the  same  in  your  place. 
You  needn't  show  this  letter,  of  course;  or  mention 
what  I  have  said ;  you  would  not  be  likely  to ;  and  I 
hope  you  always  tear  up  all  my  letters;  it  is  never 
worth  while  to  keep  them,  and  if  they  are  at  all  confi 
dential,  it  is  best  not  to  leave  them  lying  about  for 
people  to  get  hold  of,  who  are  no  way  concerned.  I 
don't  meqn  to  interfere;  only  we  stand  ready,  Mr. 
Gair  and  I,  to  give  Gershom  any  opportunities  we  can, 
and  I  want  you  to  know  it.  And  if  he  could  come 
and  stay  here  awhile  this  spring,  it  would  be  a  kind 
ness  to  us;  for  Say,  you  know,  is  lonesome,  and  she 
thinks  everything  of  him,  and  he  is  always  so  much 
company  for  her;  and,  having  no  boy  of  our  own,  we 
naturally  think  a  great  deal  of  Gershom.  In  fact,  as 
father  said  once,  "he  's  all  the  boy  we  've  got,"  and  I 


MBS.  GAIR  WRITES  HOME.  131 

think  it  will  be  who  shall  have  the  most  of  him.  You 
can  consider  of  this,  and  if  you  think  well  of  it,  you 
can  tell  father  we  have  asked  you  to  let  him  come, 
and  we  shall  be  glad  to  see  him  at  any  time  that  may 
be  convenient.  Perhaps  father  will  come  down  after 
Joanna,  and  bring  him  along  then. 

I  had  some  other  things  to  say,  but  I  have  filled 
and  crossed  my  sheet,    and   must   let    them  wait    till 
another  time.      Hoping  to  hear  from  you  soon,  I  am 
Your  affectionate  sister, 

JANE  GAIR. 

Mrs.  Gair's  letter,  you  see,  was  by  no  means  a 
masterpiece.  Mrs.  Gair  herself  was  not  a  master 
piece.  Yet  she  managed  to  carry  out  her  little  sel 
fishnesses,  and  do  her  little  mischiefs,  and  set  going, 
in  a  small  way,  what  grew  to  be  quite  sufficient  evils 
in  the  end.  It  does  n't  take  a  great  scoundrel,  or 
whatever  is  the  feminine  of  that,  —  dictionary  men 
have  been  too  chivalrous  to  tell  us,  — to  accomplish 
every  separate  bit  of  Satan's  work  that  gets  done  in 
the  world.  Catherine  de  Medicis  may  be  wanted  for 
one  job,  but  Jane  Gair  will  very  well  answer  for  an 
other. 

There  was  an  inconsistency,  somehow,  in  the  woman 
who  could  write  just  such  a  letter  as  that.  The  old 
home  feeling,  — for  Mrs.  Gair  said  truth  when  she 
declared  that  she  could  n't  help  "running  on  about 
Hilbury  folks  when  she  once  got  a-going, "  —  the  ca 
pacity  for  appreciating  a  nobleness  in  another,  —  the 
little  heart- touch  in  her  words  as  she  recounted  what 
Joanna  had  told  her  of  the  Hartshornes,  —  all  this 
was  strangely  enough  mixed  up  with  a  very  mean  pur 
pose  of  her  own.  People  seem,  oft'en,  in  a  marvelous 
way,  to  set  themselves  in  contrast  with  themselves, 
and  not  to  perceive  it.  Many  a  man  to-day  cheers 


132  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

lustily  the  old  flag  that  heroes  bear  back  from  battle, 
having  yet  no  idea  of  periling  a  button  for  it,  himself, 
that  he  can  help;  nay,  calculating  its  chances  and 
mischances  selfishly,  studying  the  bulletin  as  a  price- 
current.  The  same  style  of  human  nature  comes  out 
identical  under  great  variety  and  degree  of  test.  Jane 
Gair  could  discern  the  greatness  of  Gabriel  Harts- 
horne's  devotion;  she  could  even  speak  of  it  with  a 
little  flash  of  enthusiasm ;  yet  turn  deliberately  to  her 
own  intent  of  winning  away  the  chief  dependence  and 
comfort  of  her  own  old  father's  declining  years. 
Only,  she  thought  that  she  knew  better  than  himself 
what  was  really  best  in  the  matter.  That  is,  she  told 
herself  she  thought  so.  One  must  go  down  very  deep 
to  find  the  true  throbbing  of  the  mainspring,  when 
once  motives  and  reasonings  begin  to  double  and  twist 
themselves  within  us.  The  real  thing  she  was  going 
to  do  —  the  real  thing  she  meant  to  do  —  was,  in 
plain  words,  to  unsettle  Gershom's  mind  if  she  could, 
and  lead  him  to  disappoint  her  father's  intentions  con 
cerning  him ;  to  incite  his  love  of  adventure  and  boyish 
independence  of  spirit  to  some  act  or  manifestation 
that  should  overturn  the  doctor's  plans,  and  decide  a 
different  future  for  him ;  perhaps,  even,  alienate  the 
two  utterly.  This  was  the  secret,  unworded  thought ; 
overlaid  and  represented  by  argument  that  "the  boy 
ought  to  know  his  own  mind,  or  he  'd  only  be  a 
greater  disappointment  in  the  end ;  that  if  he  really 
wanted  to  go  to  college,  looking  forward,  after  that, 
to  driving  a  doctor's  chaise  round  the  old  Hilbury 
roads,  for  the  remainder  of  his  life,  she  certainly 
wouldn't  do  anything  to  prevent  it;  but  it  wasn't 
likely  he  'd  be  contented  with  that,  after  he  'd  got 
ready  for  it;  and  what  was  more,  her  father  wouldn't 
find  himself  quite  in  such  a  hurry  to  give  up  and  make 
way,  when  it  came  to  the  point,  as  he  might  fancy 


MBS.  GAIB  WRITES  HOME.  133 

now;  old  men  never  did;  and  it  would  come  to  the 
point,  and  he  'd  have  to  do  it  in  half  a  dozen  years 
or  so,  or  else  there  'd  be  Gershom,  standing  round, 
waiting  and  spoiling,  till  he  should  step  out  of  his 
shoes  and  leave  them  to  him.  There  never  was  any 
thing  more  miserable  than  that." 

"Why,  it  would  be  enough  to  fairly  shorten  his 
days,  to  let  him  settle  down  into  the  feeling  that  his 
work  was  almost  done,  and  somebody  else  was  getting 
ready  to  take  hold.  It  would  be  better  for  both  that 
Gershom  should  go  his  own  way,  if  father  'd  only 
think  so." 

"And  then,  very  likely,  it  would  make  some  differ 
ence  about  that  bit  of  paper  she  had  seen  signed  and 
laid  away,  three  years  ago. " 

This  subtle  little  thought  was  neither  boldly  looked 
at  nor  confessed;  yet  there  it  lay,  palpitating  and 
alive;  imprinted  in  a  very  fine  soul-type  underneath 
everything  else  that  had  written  itself  above ;  and  was 
the  text  and  prompting  of  it  all. 

A  little  letter  had  fallen  from  within  the  larger,  as 
Mrs.  Vorse  had  opened  it.  This  was  from  Say. 

DEAR  OLD  GERSHIE,  — I  am  so  glad  you  are  com 
ing  to  see  us  in  the  spring.  Mother  says  she  has  been 
asking  you.  You  must  stay  a  great  while,  because 
there  will  be  ever  so  much  to  do.  The  Dido  has  been 
in,  and  I  have  been  down  to  the  wharf  four  times  and 
gone  on  board.  And  then  I  came  up  through  the 
market  and  bought  things.  The  peaches  and  pears 
are  all  gone  now,  but  there  are  nuts  and  funny  little 
shiny  cakes  and  candies.  Last  week  the  Dido  sailed, 
and  I  went  down  with  father  and  saw  her  s;o.  The 

O 

sailors  sing  such  funny  songs.  You  have  n't  seen  the 
sea  yet.  It  looks  just  the  same.  And  they  bring  back 
oranges  and  pineapples  and  sometimes  cocoanuts.  The 


134  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

Pearl  is  coming  by  and  by.  It 's  always  nice  when 
the  Pearl  comes  in.  She  goes  a  good  way  off,  and 
only  comes  back  once  in  a  great  while.  I  guess  you  '11 
be  here  when  she  comes.  Mother  's  going  to  do  up 
her  letter.  Good-by. 

Respectfully,  your  obedient  servant, 

SARAH  GAIR. 

Say  had  inquired  out,  you  see,  the  abbreviated  for 
mality  at  the  close  of  a  business  note.  It  contrasted 
funnily  with  the  spontaneousness  of  her  beginning. 
This  is  how  the  fashions  of  the  world  will  always  sit 
upon  some  natures.  Her  mother  smiled  as  she  read 
it,  said  it  was  a  very  good  little  letter,  and  put  it  in. 

Prue  was  neither  imposed  upon  nor  confounded  as 
she  read  what  Jane  had  written.  Brought  to  the  test 
of  her  clear,  just  sense  of  right,  the  composition  suf 
fered  instant  analysis  into  its  true  elements.  She  saw 
plainly  enough  what  it  was  that  her  step-sister  wanted. 
Not  all,  perhaps;  Jane  herself,  you  know,  shut  her 
eyes  to  the  full  extent  of  her  own  purpose.  But  she 
discerned  that  whether  other  people  might  or  might 
not  think  what  Jane  had  suggested,  — she  did  n't  be 
lieve  it  likely,  or  trouble  herself  at  all  about  it,  —  that 
lady's  own  mind  was  evidently  disturbed  upon  the  sub 
ject;  had  fully  possessed  itself  with  the  idea  that 
Gershom's  "hanging  round  home  "  was,  of  design  or 
otherwise,  likely  to  affect  her  own  rights  and  interests. 
And  here  was  where,  by  indirect  effect,  Jane  actually 
succeeded  in  touching  that  independence  of  spirit  which 
she  sought  to  provoke.  Prudence  Vorse  read  the  let 
ter  through,  twice,  from  beginning  to  end;  then  she 
laid  it  down,  and  discussed  clearly  with  herself  its 
main  points. 

These.  Gershom  must  be  dealt  fairly  by;  that 
argument  had  force.  He  must  decide  with  his  eyes 


MRS.  GAIE  WRITES  HOME.  135 

open ;  she  would  not  shut  him  out  from  seeing  or 
knowing  what  might  reasonably  affect  his  wishes  and 
plans ;  it  would  be  good  for  him  to  go  away  beyond 
the  Hilbury  horizon,  and  get  a  broader  look  at  the 
world.  Also,  to  accomplish  this  for  him,  she  knew, 
at  this  moment,  no  other  way  than  to  accept  for  him 
the  hospitality  of  her  step-sister.  It  might  lead  to 
the  disappointment  of  her  own  wishes,  and  those  of  his 
grandfather,  as  Gershom  had  been  taught  to  call  the 
doctor ;  yet  this  thing  would  be  only  fair  to  the  boy ; 
she  saw  that;  and,  being  fair  and  just,  to  Prue's  mind 
it  was,  of  necessity,  the  thing  to  be  done.  To  be 
done,  however,  with  a  perfectly  open  understanding. 
The  doctor  must  know  all  her  reasons  and  thoughts 
apon  the  matter;  must  see  the  possible  result,  as  she 
saw  it,  before  he  gave  consent  to  what  he  might  not 
otherwise  think  of  as  more  than  a  brief  change  and 
recreation.  Jane's  letter?  There  was  no  need  to 
communicate  more  of  that  than  its  message  and  invi 
tation.  It  was  with  a  certain  generous,  high-minded 
contempt  that  she  settled,  in  a  half-glance  of  thought, 
that  consideration.  A  weapon  had  been  put  into  her 
hands  by  her  adversary,  if  she  had  chosen  to  use  it. 
A  hint  to  the  free-hearted  old  doctor  of  its  insinua 
tions  would  have  made  him  indignantly  resolute  to 
take  and  keep  his  own  way  in  the  disposal  of  his  own ; 
and  might  have  put  a  purpose  in  his  head  for  the  boy's 
benefit,  if  it  had  never  been  there  before.  .  But  Jane 
knew  well  with  whom  she  had  to  deal.  This  very 
possibility  kept  Prue  silent;  and  the  confidence  of 
words  written  with  the  simple  request  of  privacy,  and 
trusted  to  her,  beyond  recall  of  the  hand  that  penned 
them,  held  her  with  all  the  sacredness  of  her  own 
pledged  word.  No,  she  had  no  thought  of  betraying 
Jane ;  the  less  that  she  perceived  so  easily  how  Jane 
betrayed  herself. 


136  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

That  night  she  read  out  to  the  doctor,  after  tea, 
those  portions  of  the  letter  conveying  Jane's  thanks  to 
him,  her  mention  of  Joanna,  and  her  proposal  in  the 
boy's  behalf.  Then  she  took  her  scissors  and  cut  the 
sheet  into  narrow  strips,  and  twisted  them  into  lamp 
lighters.  This  was  Prue's  prompt  and  economical 
fashion  of  disposing  of  such  things. 

While  she  twisted,  she  talked. 

"I've  been  thinking  it  over,  and  the  way  it  looks 
to  me  is  this.  You  've  done  a  good  deal,  already, 
for  Gershom ;  and  before  you  do  anything  more,  it 
would  only  be  fair  to  both  of  you  that  he  should  have 
a  chance  to  make  up  his  mind  so  that  there  won't 
be  any  danger  of  his  changing  it  afterwards.  He  's 
never  been  away  from  home  very  far ;  and  I  dare  say 
't  would  do  him  good.  And,  at  any  rate,  we  can't 
keep  it  from  him  that  they  've  asked  him  again ;  I 
don't  hold  to  hiding  things  that  folks  have  a  good 
right  to  know;  and  there  isn't  any  doubt  but  what 
he  '11  be  fierce  to  go.  And  that 's  the  thing  I  want 
to  come  to.  I  think  it 's  more  than  likely  myself, 
that  when  he  gets  down  there  among  the  ships  and 
things,  it  '11  be  hard  work  getting  him  back  again. 
There!  Now,  if  you  don't  want  him  to  go,  say  so!  " 

The  doctor  looked  over  at  Prue's  honest  face  and 
laughed.  "You  're  a  funny  special  pleader,"  said  he. 

"I  never  talk  all  on  one  side,"  answered  Prue. 
"Not  when  I  can  see  two  sides  to  a  thing." 

"Let's  look  at  the  letter.  Oh,  you've  turned  it 
into  lamplighters  already,  have  you?  Well,  it  don't 
make  much  difference.  If  the  boy  wants  to  go,  Prue, 
and  you  want  to  have  him,  that  settles  it.  If  he  gets 
unsettled,  I  shall  be  sorry;  but  if  two  or  three  weeks 
down  there  can  do  the  mischief,  it 's  as  good  as  done 
already,  and  we  can't  help  it.  He  's  old  enough  now 
to  be  put  to  the  trial.  And  that  's  the  way  it  looks 
to  me." 


MRS.  GAIE  WRITES  HONE.  137 

Two  straightforward  minds  come  quickly  to  under 
standing  and  conclusion. 

Prue  answered  Jane's  letter  thus :  — 

DEAR  JANE,  —  Your  letter  and  parcel  were  duly 
received.  Please  accept  my  thanks  for  your  trouble. 
I  send  you  fifteen  dollars,  out  of  which  you  will  please 
pay  yourself  whatever  is  due  for  the  dress.  I  could 
not  think  of  taking  it  as  a  present,  for  I  had  the 
money  by  me  to  send  for  a  new  one  if  it  was  necessary ; 
only  I  always  try  first  whether  I  can  make  the  old 
things  over. 

As  to  Gershom,  I  don't  know  of  anything  to  prevent 
his  coming  to  Selport  this  spring.  Your  father  seems 
to  think  it  right  that  he  should;  and  he  '11  be  sure  to 
like  the  plan,  and  be  much  obliged  to  you  and  Reuben 
for  inviting  him.  I  wrote  to  him  yesterday,  and  sent 
him  Say's  letter. 

I  don't  feel  at  all  worried  about  anything  that  folks 
can  think  of  me.  It  's  plain  enough,  on  the  face  of 
it,  that  Gershom  and  I  owe  our  time  and  help  to  your 
father  if  he  wants  them;  and  he  's  given  us  just  what 
he  promised  he  would  in  return:  a  good  home,  and 
clothing  for  both,  and  Gershom 's  schooling.  It  was 
a  fair  bargain,  because  it  was  a  bargain,  though  a  gen 
erous  one  on  the  doctor's  part,  as  his  bargains  always 
are.  If  ever  he  does  anything  more,  it  won't  be  be 
cause  we  've  waited  round  for  it,  or  expected  it. 

There  isn't  much  news  in  Hilbury.  Gordon  King 
preached  here  last  Sunday.  He  's  altered  a  good  deal 
since  he  was  married.  Stacy  did  n't  come.  She 
couldn't  leave  the  two  babies.  They  say  she  isn't 
very  well  contented  at  Winthorpe.  It 's  a  large  par 
ish,  and  there  's  a  good  deal  expected  of  her.  A 
woman  ought  to  be  as  strong  as  Goliath  and  as  patient 
as  Job,  to  make  a  good  minister's  wife.  And  Stacy 


138  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

never  was  quite  that,  I  guess.  Gordon  is  improved  in 
his  sermons,  though.  Somehow,  there  seems  to  be 
more  reality  to  them. 

You  must  excuse  short  letters.  I  don't  pretend  to 
be  much  of  a  hand  at  writing,  and  I  don't  have  a  great 
de?l  of  time  for  it.  Give  my  love  to  Joanna,  and 
Say,  and  remember  me  kindly  to  Reuben. 

Yours  truly, 

PRUDENCE  VORSE. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE    PEARL. 

SPRING  had  breathed  over  the  city.  The  light  and 
joy  that  were  in  the  country,  among  the  hills  and  fields, 
somehow  crept  hither,  also.  There  was  the  smell  of 
tender  grass  in  the  narrow  door-yards ;  the  very  side 
walks,  as  they  steamed  under  the  sun  that  climbed  the 
great  firmament  daily  higher  and  higher,  had  an  odor 
as  of  the  prisoned  earth  beneath,  stirred  with  the 
sweet,  universal  impulse  of  growth,  and  giving  out 
sighs  of  gentle,  yearning  pain  through  every  crevice. 
Little  children  were  gay,  they  knew  not  why.  Birds 
sang,  in  their  cages,  with  a  feeling  of  the  far  forests 
that  they  never  saw.  Houses  stood  with  open  win 
dows,  and  the  freshness  of  light  and  cleanliness  was 
bestowed,  where,  all  winter  long,  had  been  dimness 
and  chill,  and  gathering  dust  and  soil.  Ladies  walked 
out,  appareled  in  delicate  fabrics  and  colors.  There* 
was  a  shining  in  shop  windows  of  all  manner  of  light 
and  lovely  draperies.  Churches  on  Sunday  were  beau 
tiful  with  a. sort  of  human  blossom-time.  Faces  were 
bright;  hearts,  even  the  saddest,  felt  some  instinctive 
spring  of  elasticity.  Earth  lay  in  her  perihelion  to 
heaven. 

And  the  Pearl  had  come  in. 

From  far  islands,  away  over  on  the  other  side  of  the 
great  ocean,  that  she  left  in  the  scorching  heats  of 
their  torrid  summer,  she  had  come  sailing,  over  and 
up,  from  clime  to  clime,  meeting  the  seasons  as  the 
great  globe  wheeled  itself,  and  bent  its  northern  brow 
toward  the  summer  solstice.  And  there  she  lay  at  the 


140  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

pier  end,  dingy  and  weather-beaten,  breathing  out  the 
strange  atmosphere  that  had  hung  around  her  all  the 
long  way;  a  mingling  of  tropical  spiciness,  odors  of 
dried  skins,  with  which  she  was  largely  laden,  and  the 
tarry  flavor  that  had  distilled  itself  through  everything, 
while  shrouds  and  seams  were  seething  there  under 
that  equatorial  sun,  with  a  glorious  fragrance  of  rich, 
foreign  fruits  triumphing  over  all.  For  there  were 
plenty  of  oranges  and  pineapples ;  and,  lying  in  the 
half-deck,  with  spare  blocks,  and  rope,  and  rolled-up 
sails,  great  piles  of  rough-barked,  sweet-hearted  cocoa- 
nuts. 

And  Gershom  Vorse  had  come  to  the  city,  too,  at 
last.  A  well-grown  fellow  of  sixteen  he  was  now; 
tall,  sturdy,  like  a  young  pine;  with  a  mountaineer's 
uplifting  of  the  brow,  and  a  light  upon  it  as  if  it  caught 
the  shining  of  some  far-off  sun.  Full  of  quick  thought 
and  manly  hope,  —  ready  for  life,  —  glancing  keenly, 
out  of  eagle  eyes,  into  the  world  around  him,  to  see 
what  offered  to  him  there.  A  boy  in  his  imaginations 
and  his  faiths ;  growing  speedily  to  a  man  in  will  and 
purpose. 

Say  was  very  happy  in  showing  him  about.  Most 
of  all,  in  "  taking  him  down  to  see  the  Pearl, "  and 
doing  the  honors  there. 

Captain  Burley  was  heartily  hospitable  on  board  his 
brig.  There  were  gentlemen  in  and  out  of  his  cabin, 
sometimes,  on  business.  Mr.  Gair  was  often  on  board, 
for  some  quiet  consultation,  secure  from  the  interrup 
tions  of  the  counting-house.  There  was  always  a  plate 
of  great,  red-golden  oranges,  such  as  only  came  in  the 
Pearl,  or  in  vessels  that  went  just  where  she  did, 
pineapples  and  sugar,  or  a  glass  of  wine,  ready,  either 
or  all,  according  to  the  tastes  of  his  visitors.  There 
was  always  somebody  who  would  crack  a  cocoanut  for 
Say,  delivering  up  to  her  the  fragments  of  the  wonder- 


THE  PEAEL.  141 

ful  brown  globe,  with  their  lining  of  pure,  rich,  de 
licious  meat,  and  the  thin,  luscious  milk,  saved  for  her 
in  the  glass  she  would  get  out  of  the  captain's  pantry. 

The  vessel  lay,  as  I  said,  at  the  pier-end ;  there  was 
a  clear  outlook  from  stem  or  stern.  Say  used  to  de 
light  in  lying  curled  up  on  the  cushioned  transom,  in 
the  little  cabin,  and  looking  through  the  open  stern 
windows,  down  over  the  bright  waters  of  the  harbor, 
away  off,  into  the  broad,  open  bay.  Overhead,  the 
stevedore  and  his  gang  might  tramp  and  shout;  out 
on  the  wharf  might  be  all  the  bustle  and  noise  and 
crowding  of  men,  and  teams,  and  merchandise,  lad 
ing  and  unlading ;  but  down  here  it  was  safe  and  quiet, 
and  opened  forth  upon  endless  expanse  and  freedom 
and  coolness.  Gershom  would  leave  her,  established 
so,  with  her  oranges  and  cocoanuts,  and  go  himself  all 
over  the  vessel,  searching  out  its  hidden  places,  ques 
tioning,  observing,  studying;  feeling  a  strange  sort  of 
reverence  for  the  very  ropes  and  timbers  that  had  come, 
through  sudden  nights,  and  burning  days,  in  gales, 
and  calms,  and  beautiful  breezy  weather,  over  half  the 
face  of  the  round  world.  He  would  climb,  as  he  had 
promised  long  ago  to  Say,  up  the  rigging,  and  sit  in 
the  main-top,  and  look  away  where  the  blue  water 
touched  the  sky-line ;  and  think  what  it  would  be  for 
him  to  go  sailing  down  there,  over  the  mysterious 
verge,  to  find  the  far-off  countries  and  islands  of  the 
earth,  —  he,  who  had  hitherto  seen  only  Hilbury  rocks, 
and  traversed  woods  and  pastures  and  mountain  roads 
in  a  small  circuit  of  a  dozen  miles.  Just  over  here 
roared  the  busy,  growing,  striving  city ;  but  that  he 
hardly  cared  for  in  comparison;  off  yonder  rolled  and 
heaved  the  waters  down  the  mighty  planet-side,  and 
his  whole  soul  went  out  after  his  eyes  in  his  resistless 
longing  to  go  and  see  the  world. 

They  spent  whole   afternoons  here;  walking  up  at 


142  THE  GAY  WORTHY  S. 

sunset  through  the  quieting  streets  at  last  with  Mr. 
Gair;  whose  mind,  intent  upon  invoices  and  price-cur 
rents,  caught  no  thrill  of  all  that  stirred  so  restlessly 
the  heart  and  brain  of  the  stripling  by  his  side. 

So  things  wrought  on  together,  just  as  one  at  least 
among  those  interested  in  results  had  partially  foreseen 
and  tacitly  intended. 

Years  ago,  Jane  Gair  had  laid  a  few  little  kindling 
sticks  together,  toward  the  building  of  a  fire.  Other 
and  larger  ones  had  laid  themselves  as  it  were  since,  or 
had  been  flung  on  by  circumstance  and  opportunity. 
There  was  a  pretty  pile  ready  now,  and  a  match  was 
touched.  When  she  saw  little  threads  of  smoke  begin 
to  creep  up  among  them,  she  set  herself  judiciously  to 
blow.  There  are  two  ways  of  using  one's  breath  upon 
a  flame.  It  depends  on  whether  one  wrishes  to  blow 
it  up  or  blow  it  out.  Either  may  be  done  perhaps  at 
first,  and  a  heedless  bystander  might  not  discern,  at 
first,  which  was  intended.  Mrs.  Reuben  Gair  did  not 
blow  upon  Gershom  Vorse's  kindling  fancy  as  if  she 
meant  to  blow  it  out.  One  real,  cold,  vigorous  puff, 
at  the  right  instant,  might  have  been  effectual.  She 
blew ;  but  gently.  It  was  a  mild  show  of  remonstrance 
and  caution,  against  which  the  flame  curled  only 
stronger  into  life.  Presently,  it  would  gain  such  head 
way  that  she  might  labor  against  it  as  heartily  and 
directly  as  she  pleased,  yet  the  blaze  would  only  grow 
and  mount  more  mightily.  Then  nobody  looking  on 
could  blame  her,  surely.  Then  she  might  say  to  her 
own  conscience,  even,  —  "It  's  none  of  my  doing.  I 
have  persuaded;  I  have  opposed;  the  boy  will  have 
his  own  way." 

"I  don't  know,  Gershom,"  she  said  to  him  one  even 
ing,  coming  to  him  in  the  front  window,  after  tea  was 
over,  "about  all  this  going  to  the  wharf.  I  am  afraid 
the  Pearl  has  a  little  bewitched  you." 


THE  PEARL.  143 

"What  if  she  has,  Aunt  Jane?  " 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  It  won't  do  to  get  too  much 
taken  up.  It  isn't  what  you  've  got  to  do  with,  you 
know. " 

"I  haven't  found  out  what  I  have  got  to  do  with, 
yet.  I  've  just  come  down  out  of  the  hills.  I  've  only 
had  books  to  tell  me  what 's  in  the  world ;  I  've  got 
out  to  an  edge  here,  where  I  can  look  off.  I  think 
that  's  it,  — more  than  the  Pearl." 

"There  's  a  good  deal  to  see  here,  without  looking 
off." 

"Yes;  people  walking  up  and  down  the  streets,  be 
tween  their  stores  and  houses,  just  as  if  there  was  n't 
anything  beyond.  I  don't  see  how  they  can  do  it.  I 
don't  see  how  anybody  can  get  as  far  as  this,  and  not 
want  to  go  farther." 

"You  'd  better  put  those  notions  out  of  your  head. 
They  won't  answer.  Things  are  pretty  much  settled 
for  you,  already,  I  guess." 

There  came  a  cloud  over  the  boy's  face.  This 
touched  where  human  nature  —  young  human  nature, 
at  least  —  inevitably  rebels. 

"Things  get  unsettled  sometimes,"  he  said,  half 
under  his  breath. 

"I  'm  rather  sorry,"  said  Aunt  Jane,  "that  you  've 
been  kept  quite  so  long  at  home.  I  always  thought  it 
would  have  been  better  to  give  you  a  chance  to  look 
about  you  sooner.  It  's  like  coming  suddenly  out  of 
the  dark.  You  're  dazzled,  at  first.  But  it 's  only 
the  novelty.  You  '11  get  over  it." 

"There  's  more  novelty  out  there,  somewhere. 
And  I  never  heard  of  anybody  who  wanted  to  go  back 
into  the  dark.' 

Gershom's  thoughts  defined  themselves,  as  they  were 
drawn  out  in  argument.  His  words  declared  as  much 
to  himself  that  he  had  hardly  looked  at  before,  as  to 
his  listener.  More,  perhaps. 


144  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

"T — t — t!"  Mrs.  Gair's  tongue  made  a  little 
untranslatable,  deprecating  sound  against  the  roof  of 
her  mouth.  "That  depends,  some,  upon  what  there 
is  to  go  back  for.  People  must  think  what  is  for 
their  interest.  What  could  you  do,  off  in  the  world, 
alone  ?  " 

Pride  and  independence  —  yes,  even  honor  —  got 
a  prick  in  this  little  sentence.  The  boy  was  amazed 
within  himself,  at  the  sudden  start  and  growth,  almost 
into  determination,  of  his  secret,  restless  wishes. 

"I  might  find  out  what,  perhaps.  Others  have. 
And  I  don't  mean  to  be  a  good  boy  just  for  what  I 
can  get.  I  shan't  be  a  baby  all  my  life,  to  sit  in 
people's  laps  and  be  fed." 

"Why,  Gershie,  you  're  spunky,  as  Eben  used  to 
say !  "  exclaimed  Aunt  Jane,  and  laughed. 

But  there  were  sudden  tears  in  the  boy's  eyes,  after 
the  fire.  The  thought  came  to  him  how  he  had  been 
fed,  and  taught ;  and  what  he  owed ;  and  how  he  was 
held.  A  generous  throb  of  gratitude  and  affection 
struggled  with  the  strange,  impetuous  impulse  just 
born  into  conscious  life.  Together,  they  burst  forth 
in  a  short,  quick,  single  sob.  He  put  his  elbow  up, 
upon  the  window-ledge,  and,  turning  his  face  half 
away,  leaned  his  chin  upon  his  hand,  and  looked  va 
cantly,  through  a  great  glistening,  out  into  the  street. 

"Why,  Gershie!  "  began  Aunt  Jane,  again.  "You 
quite  worry  me.  I  'd  no  idea  the  mischief  had  gone 
so  far.  Or  that  there  was  any  real  mischief  at  all. 
I  shall  have  to  write  home  about  you,  if  you  feel  like 
this." 

"No,"  said  Gershom,  turning  back  suddenly,  and 
rising  to  his  feet.  "Don't  do  that.  When  there's 
anything  to  write  about,  I  '11  write  myself.  Or  go." 
And  with  that  he  put  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and 
walked  off  into  the  back  parlor,  where  Say  was  spread- 


THE  PEARL.  145 

ing  out  her  "  Mansion  of  Happiness, "  and  offered  to 
play  with  her.  Presently,  they  were  both  busy  with 
teetotum  and  counters,  as  if  nothing  else  were  in  heart 
or  head  of  either. 

A  little  door,  opened  for  an  instant  by  an  unex 
pected  word,  had  swung  to  again  upon  the  secret  place 
in  a  human  heart,  whence  motive  power  was  fed,  and 
a  steam  of  purpose  generated  that  should  become  the 
propelling  force  of  a  human  life.  But  Aunt  Jane  had 
glanced  in,  and  seen  that  the  fire  was  burning,  —  well. 

The  next  evening,  Captain  Burley  came  to  tea. 
With  an  unusual  blandness,  Aunt  Jane  had  herself 
proposed  the  invitation.  "We  ought  to  have  him 
here,"  she  said.  "He  's  been  very  kind  to  the  chil 
dren.  It  seems  to  me  they  have  half  lived  on  board 
the  Pearl  since  she  came  in."  Mrs.  Gair  was  ordi 
narily  rather  shy  of  proffering  or  even  assenting  to 
this  sort  of  hospitality,  to  "business  people."  Cap 
tain  Burley  picked  his  teeth,  put  his  feet  on  the 
fender,  tilted  back  his  chair,  and  spat  in  the  grate. 
What  if  Mrs.  Topliff  and  her  husband  should  happen 
to  come  in,  in  a  social  way,  as  she  had  asked  them  to 
do  ?  To  be  sure  they  never  had  happened  in,  since 
the  Pearl  went  away  before ;  but  the  possibility  was 
always  hanging  over  her  head. 

Mr.  Gair  very  willingly  conveyed  the  invitation, 
which  he  had  somewhat  timidly  delayed  suggesting. 

Captain  Burley  talked  well.  I  do  not  mean  ele 
gantly,  or  eloquently ;  except  so  far  as  eloquence  is 
understood  as  comprehending  the  power  with  which 
even  an  ordinary  fashion  of  speech  may  convey  from 
a  mind  fully  possessed  with  its  topic,  its  aspects  and 
interests  to  the  minds  of  others. 

Captain  Burley  was  a  thorough  sailor.  He  was  a 
great,  full-souled,  generous  man,  too.  It  seemed  as 
if  he  held  the  sea  in  his  heart,  and  all  his  emotions 


146  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

became  like  the  pulsing  of  mighty  tides.  This  nature 
that  was  in  him,  flowing  out  into  his  common  conver 
sation,  made  it  strong  and  salt ;  sparkling,  too,  when 
any  little  touch  of  sunshine  played  upon  it.  Gershom 
sat  by,  listening ;  something  responsive  waking  up, 
within  himself,  to  all  he  heard. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Mr.  Gair,  "that  we  couldn't 
have  kept  Oakman  for  you,  this  trip." 

"Can't  be  as  sorry  as  I  am,"  said  the  captain. 
"The  brig  won't  know  how  to  behave  herself  without 
him.  He  's  the  smartest  fellow  that  ever  trod  a  deck 
and  wasn't  master  of  it.  Can't  blame  him,  though. 
If  I  'd  an  old  mother  out  West,  that  I  hadn't  clapped 
eyes  on  for  three  years'  voyagin',  I  guess  I  'd  shake 
off  salt  water,  and  lay  my  course  overland,  too !  " 

"He  '11  get  that  new  barque  of  Kentley's  when  he 
comes  back.  They  've  been  after  him." 

"Likely  he  will.  And  he  ought  to.  That,  or 
something  else  as  good.  But  that  ain't  what  he 's 
workin'  sail  for.  Pity  you  've  promised  the  new  brig 
to  Dixon.  He  'd  have  been  the  man  for  her.  It  's  as 
good  as  a  double  insurance,  to  put  him  on  a  quarter 
deck.  Saved  the  whole  voyage,  to  say  nothing  of  my 
life,  that  last  time  but  one.  We  'd  have  been  hauled 
up  there  in  Charles 'on  harbor,  cargo  all  tumbled  out, 
and  crew  off,  in  the  middle  of  the  yellow  fever,  if  't 
had  n't  been  for  him.  And  I  don't  know  another  man 
that  could  have  helped  it.  I  tell  you,  — he  's  a  kind 
of  Tarpaulin  Bonaparte!" 

"You  tell  that  story  yet,  don't  you,  Captain,"  said 
Mr.  Gair,  laughing.  "Well,  it  's  a  good  one." 

"Ask  him  to  tell  it  now,"  whispered  Gershom  ea 
gerly  to  Aunt  Jane. 

Mrs.  Gair  turned  from  the  boy's  kindling  face  to 
the  sea-browned  visage  of  the  skipper,  that  was  light 
ing  all  over  also  with  the  pleased  recollection  of 


THE  PEAEL.  147 

difficulty  met,  man-fashion,  and  peril  passed  safely 
through.  It  would  evidently  be  no  less  pleasure  to 
tell  than  to  listen. 

"Mayn't  we  hear  about  it,  Captain  Burley?"  she 
asked. 

"Certainly,  ma'am.  'T isn't  a  long  story.  Now 
—  to  tell  —  I  mean.  We  thought  't  was  a  tolerable 
long  story  in  the  time  of  it.  Or  he  did,  at  any  rate. 
He  didn't  let  me  know  it  all,  as  it  went  on.  You 
see, "  continued  the  captain,  bringing  his  chair  down 
quietly  to  its  four  feet,  as  cognizant  again  of  ladies' 
presence,  and  releasing  his  thumbs  from  the  corners  of 
his  trousers'  pockets,  where  they  had  hitched  them 
selves,  to  place  his  hands  upon  his  wide-spread  knees, 
and  lean  a  little  forward  toward  his  questioner,  as  he 
spoke,  —  "we  was  coming  up  from  Rio.  Cargo  of 
coffee  and  sugar.  Some  hides.  Been  out  thirty  days ; 
bothered  about  with  calms  and  head  winds  on  the  line 
and  all  the  way  up,  till  we  took  the  northeast  trades ; 
worked  along  up  with  them,  till  we  got  just  to  the 
north' ard  of  St.  Thomas. 

"I  was  down  below,  sick,  in  my  berth;  got  awfully 
knocked  up,  somehow;  hadn't  been  well  all  the  way 
from  Rio,  nor  before  we  sailed.  Oakman  had  the 
handling  of  the  brig.  All  at  once,  —  sprung  a  leak. 
Made  two  feet  and  a  half  of  water  before  we  knew 
what  we  were  about.  Could  n't  tell  where  it  came  in. 
Mistrusted  some  foul  play  on  the  part  of  the  crew ; 
had  some  troublesome  fellows  aboard.  Well,  we  set 
the  men  at  the  pumps ;  had  to  keep  'em  going  night 
and  day.  Pretty  soon  they  began  to  grumble ;  thought 
we  ought  to  put  in.  Talked  about  making  the  Hole 
in  the  Wall,  and  getting  into  Nassau.  Nice  place 
that  would  have  been!  Wreckers,  and  pirates,  and 
general  average,  and  hides  all  eaten  up  with  worms ! 
At  last,  the  third  day.  in  the  afternoon,  a  gang  of  'em 


148  THE  GAY  WORTHY  S. 

came  aft,  to  Oakman.  'What 's  the  captain  going 
to  do  with  us  ?  '  That  was  what  they  wanted  to  know. 
Wanted  it  pretty  much  in  what  you  might  call  the 
imperative  mood,  too.  'Ain't  he  going  to  put  in?' 
'Can't  say,'  says  Oakman,  with  a  cigar  in  his  mouth. 
'Will  if  he  must,  I  suppose;  have  n't  asked  him, 
though,  and  don't  mean  to,  as  long  as  I  can  help  it.' 
'Well,  Mr.  Oakman,'  says  the  foremost  fellow,  'if  we 
don't  see  Providence  Channel  in  a  day  or  so, — we 
know  we're  somewhere  off  there, — we  shall  have 
more  to  say  about  it.  We  hain't  had  less  'n  a  foot  'n' 
a  half  o'  water  since  we  've  been  at  the  pumps.  Men 
have  got  some  sort  of  a  right  to  speak  for  their  lives ; 
be  '  —  well,  so  -  and  -  so'd  considerably  —  'if  they 
hain't!  '  That  wasn't  the  only  place  where  he  put  in 
the  trimmin's,  neither.  Well,  Oakman  just  stood, 
and  looked  at  'em;  straight,  without  winkin'. 

"'See  here,  my  men,'  said  he,  'd'  ye  think  you're 
going  to  gain  anything  by  this  ?  The  brig's  in  my 
hands,  subject  to  the  captain's  approval,  as  long  as 
he  's  able  to  give  me  an  order;  and  when  he  ain't,  — 
whether  or  no.  And  as  far  as  I  'm  concerned,  I  'm 
going  to  take  good  care  of  her,  and  all  that  's  in  her; 
lives,  and  cargo,  and  all.  Best  I  can.  My  own  life  's 
aboard,  too.  Maybe  you  did  n't  think  of  that.  You 
go  for'ard  again,  and  obey  orders.  If  we  find  our 
selves  off  Hole  in  the  Wall'  ('t  wasn't  likely,  for 
we  'd  crossed  the  tropic,  and  the  wind  had  come  out 
from  the  sou' west,  fair  and  strong;  and  we  was  in 
longitude  seventy  then,  if  we  was  an  inch),  'and  the 
pumps  don't  tell  a  better  story,  I  '11  advise  him  to 
put  in.  And  if  that  leak  is  found,  —  or  stopped,  — 
every  man  Jack  of  you  gets  extra  grog  as  long  as 
we  're  out,  and  a  Spanish  doubloon,  atop  of  his  wages, 
when  we  get  into  port !  ' 

"There  was  always  a  kind  of  a  look  in  that  blue  eye 


THE  PEAEL.  149 

of  his  that  the  men  could  n't  stand  against.  'T  was  n't 
savage,  neither.  What  with  that,  and  the  notion  of 
the  grog  and  the  gold,  they  pulled  forelocks,  and  took 
themselves  for'ard,  half  pacified;  and  that  lasted  till 
we  got  up  into  latitude  thirty  degrees,  just  under  the 
Bermudas.  Then  they  began  to  look  grumpy  again. 
'We  've  run  a  good  while  before  this  sou'west  wind, 
Mr.  Oakman, '  says  Kneeland,  the  second  mate,  com 
ing  aft.  He  was  as  bad  as  any  of  'em.  'Why  didn't 
you  get  in  at  Nassau?'  'You've  just  said  why,' 
says  Oakman.  'Been  running  before  a  sou'west  wind. 
You  didn't  suppose  I  should  try  to  make  New  Provi 
dence  with  a  breeze  like  this  in  my  teeth  ?  '  '  Guess 
we  '11  have  to  see  about  something  soon, '  says  Knee- 
land,  'or  the  men  won't  stand  it.  Them'  —  so-and- 
so 'd —  'pumps  is  working  the  hearts  out  of  'em.' 
'Leak  as  bad  as  ever?  '  'Don't  s'pose  you  need  tell 
ing,  sir;  you  know  't  is.'  'Sorry  for  it,'  says  Oak 
man  coolly,  'on  account  of  the  doubloons.  Don't 
gain  any,  does  it?'  'No,  sir;  nor  the  pumps  don't 
gain  on  it ;  and  if  the  men  give  out,  there  we  go,  to 
Davy's  locker,  sure  as  —  — , '  mentioning  a  place  that 
some  folks  seem  to  be  mighty  sure  of,  and  other  folks 
ain't  so  certain  about.  'They  won't  give  out,'  says 
Oakman,  again.  'We'll  bear  away  for  Charles 'on; 
and  if  matters  don't  mend,  we  '11  put  in  there.  Double 
their  grog.  Eight  bells.  Call  the  watch.'  Well, 
there  was  so  much  west  in  the  wind,  you  see,  that  we 
could  n't  make  Charles 'on.  Kept  along  up  the  coast, 
and  came  off  Hatteras.  Began  to  talk  about  Norfolk. 
Passed  off  there,  a  good  way  off,  —  in  the  night. 
Good,  stiffish  weather;  fair  wind.  'If  this  holds,' 
says  Oakman,  'we  '11  be  into  New  York  by  day  after 
to-morrow.'  He'd  kept  well  out  into  the  Gulf 
Stream,  and  we  was  then  in  longitude  only  a  little 
west  of  seventy;  and,  by  George,  sir!  while  those 


150  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

fellows  were  keeping  their  eyes  peeled  for  New  York, 
we  made  Cape  Cod !  " 

Captain  Burley  turned  round,  as  he  came  to  this 
climax  of  his  story,  warmed  up  by  the  recollection  to 
an  apparent  entire  forgetfulness  that  he  had  ever  told 
it  before,  or  that  Mr.  Gair  knew  anything  about  it; 
slapping  his  right  "hand  down  upon  his  knee  with  a 
jolly  emphasis,  and  his  ruddy  brown  face  all  aglow 
with  delight.  And  Mr.  Gair  laughed  back  again,  as 
heartily  as  if  the  Pearl  had  but  yesterday  finished  her 
hazardous  passage,  and  he  were  learning  for  the  first 
time  the  clever  daring  that  had  opposed  itself  to 
threats  of  elements  and  mutinous  men,  and  in  the  end 
made  such  a  capital  joke  out  of  it  all,  for  fireside 
rehearsal. 

"Yes,"  resumed  the  captain  presently,  "it  's  a  good 
thing  to  tell;  and  it  was  a  grand  thing  to  do;  and 
folks  on  shore  can't  take  in  the  whole  beauty  of  it, 
neither.  I  guess  nobody  but  Oakman  himself,  and 
the  Lord  Almighty,  ever  knew  what  he  went  through, 
mind  and  body,  to  get  that  brig  in  and  save  the  prop 
erty.  I  don't  believe  he  had  an  hour's  sleep,  together, 
between  the  Bahamas  and  Cape  Cod  Light.  And  he 
hadn't  a  dollar's  interest,  neither,  beyond  his  wages. 
It  was  just,  as  you  might  say,  his  own  life  against 
owners  and  underwriters,  that  he  had  to  consider. 
And  he  stuck  to  his  duty.  I  don't  know  how  it  ap 
pears  to  other  folks,  sir,  but  it  don't  seem  to  me  that 
God  looks  down  out  of  heaven  on  any  braver  or  better 
thing  than  a  man  standing  on  the  deck  of  his  vessel, 
out  of  sight  and  knowledge  of  every  human  being  but 
the  few  he  's  responsible  over,  in  mortal  peril  between 
sea  and  sky,  and  doing  the  best  he  can  boldly  to  the 
last,  for  what 's  been  trusted  to  him  by  men  a  thou 
sand  miles  off,  asleep,  comfortably,  maybe,  in  their 
beds.  It's  easy  to  talk  about;  but  doing  as  you'd 


THE  PEARL.  151 

6e  done  by  is  one  kind  of  a  thing  ashore,  and  a  tre- 
mengious  different  kind  of  a  thing,  very  often,  I  can 
tell  you,  out  at  sea!  " 

"  Did  the  sailors  get  their  doubloons  ?  "  asked  little 
Say,  after  a  pause.  "I  think  they  ouglit  to,  when 
they  worked  so  hard.  And  I  don't  wonder  they  got 
frightened. " 

"That 's  the  strangest  part  of  the  whole  thing. 
We  'd  no  sooner  made  Cape  Cod  Light,  than,  all  of  a 
sudden,  just  as  unaccountable  as  it  had  started,  that 
leak  stopped.  Pumps  sucked.  Everything  tight  and 
dry.  Might  have  turned  round  and  gone  back  to  Bio, 
if  there  'd  been  anything  to  go  back  for.  Of  course, 
it  looked  more  'n  ever  as  if  the  men  themselves  had 
had  a  hand  in  it;  and  when  they  found  'twas  no  use, 
and  they  couldn't  put  in  much  short  of  home,  they 
gave  it  up,  and  saved  their  trouble  and  their  doubloons. 
Well,  they  got  'em,  — yes;  your  father  's  a  man  that 
keeps  his  promises,  even  when  other  folks  has  to  make 
'em  for  him.  And  now,  see  what  turned  up.  When 
we  got  that  vessel  up  on  the  ways,  there  it  all  was, 
plain  as  preaching ;  pretty  good  preaching,  too,  I  think. 
There  was  the  starboard  garboard  seam,  close  by  the 
stern,  had  opened;  long  enough,  you'd  say,  to  sink  a 
seventy-four;  and  laid  right  into  it,  as  neat  as  any 
caulking,  was  a  fish.  Long,  narrow  fellow,  almost  like 
an  eel;  sucking-fish,  they  call 'em;  made  a-purpose, 
and  a  complete  fit.  Got  hold  with  his  big,  round 
mouth,  just  for'ard  of  the  leak,  exactly  where  the 
water,  drawing  in,  took  his  body  neatly  along  into  the 
seam;  and  there  it  was.  Thing  done.  Folks  talk 
about  Providence,  but  I  saw  it  then,  if  I  never  did 
afore.  That  night  came  on  the  first  storm  we  'd  had 
from  Cape  St.  Roque,  and  a  regular  peeler.  Had  to 
keep  well  off  the  coast,  and  beat  about  for  a  couple  of 
days,  before  we  could  treat  ourselves  to  a  sight  of  land 


152  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

again.  If  it  hadn't  a-been  for  that  fish  coming  along 
just  in  the  nick  of  time,  like  Jonah's  whale,  we  'd  all 
have  been  swallowed  up,  fast  enough :  never  could  have 
weathered  it  an  hour.  I  've  had  queer  things  happen 
to  me  in  my  life;  but,  take  it  altogether,  I  don't  think 
I  ever  experienced  anything  queerer  than  that  passage 
from  Rio." 

"I  'm  so  glad  the  poor  sailors  got  their  money,  and 
it  was  all  found  out  that  they  didn't  make  the  leak," 
said  Say,  slipping  her  hand  into  her  father's,  and 
nestling  closer  to  his  side  upon  the  sofa.  "Wouldn't 
you  like  to  see  such  a  man  as  that  Mr.  Oakman, 
Gershie?" 

"I'd  like  to  be  such  a  man,"  said  Gershom,  all 
afire,  and  speaking  out,  forgetting  his  boy's  reserve. 

"I  could  tell  you  more  than  that  about  him.  Peo 
ple  have  chances  for  bravery,  if  it 's  in  'em,  out  at 
sea.  It  was  only  two  or  three  years  ago  that  he  saved 
a  whole  ship-load  of  German  emigrants.  He  was  sec 
ond  mate  of  the  Grampus,  then,  bound  home  to  New 
York.  Just  this  side  of  the  Grand  Banks,  they  fell 
in  with  a  vessel  in  distress ;  dismasted,  and  sinking. 
Emigrant  ship  Adelheid,  from  Hamburg.  Hundred 
and  seventy  poor  souls  on  board,  screaming  and  pray 
ing  in  Dutch.  High  sea  running;  couldn't  get  a  boat 
alongside.  Bore  up  to  windward  as  near  the  wreck  as 
they  could,  and  sent  out  boats  and  a  hawser.  Oakman 
was  the  first  to  be  off,  and  carried  the  rope.  Got  as 
near  alongside  as  he  could  and  flung  it  aboard.  There 
they  made  it  fast,  and  rigged  a  running  bowline. 
When  the  poor,  scared  devils  found  out  that  this  was 
all  that  could  be  done  for  them,  and  they  'd  got  to 
swing  for  their  lives  in  that  fashion,  they  all  hung  back, 
and  screamed  and  prayed  in  harder  Dutch  than  ever. 
The  captain  told  the  men  to  do  as  they  liked ;  he  should 
stay  by  the  ship  till  the  passengers  were  safe.  His 


THE  PEAEL.  153 

three  officers  stood  by  him;  noble  fellows,  all  of  'em. 
I  tell  you,  'twas  a  ticklish  time.  Late  in  the  after 
noon,  —  the  vessel  settling  slow  and  sure  toward  the 
water's  edge,  —  the  Grampus  standing  off  to  windward, 
and  drifting  away  from  her  all  the  time,  — and  those 
poor  creatures,  mostly  women  and  children,  huddled 
together  on  the  doomed  deck,  trembling  and  crying; 
feeling  safer,  poor  fools,  to  keep  the  planks  under  them, 
than  to  trust  themselves  to  a  bowline-hitch  over  the 
raging  water.  The  captain  and  officers  coaxed  'em, 
—  stormed  at  'em.  No  use.  Nobody  would  go  first. 
Then  up  came  Oakman,  over  the  ship's  side,  by  the 
hawser,  and  sprung,  dripping,  on  to  the  deck.  Never 
said  a  word.  Shook  himself,  and  looked  round.  Near 
est  to  him  was  a  woman  with  two  children,  all  on  their 
knees.  Youngest  about  six  years  old.  Oakman 
grabbed  him,  screaming,  made  him  fast  with  the  bow 
line,  and  swung  him  down,  safely,  into  the  boat. 
Then  the  men  began  to  cheer.  'Don't  be  frightened,' 
says  Oakman,  in  a  bright,  hearty  way,  that  they  under 
stood,  if  they  did  n't  his  words,  and  picking  up  the 
other  child;  'we'll  save  you  all.'  Mother  hollered 
Dutch  at  him,  but  he  didn't  stop  to  listen.  Didn't 
know  a  word  she  said,  and  didn't  want  to.  When  the 
second  child  had  been  passed  down,  she  stopped  holler 
ing,  and  made  up  her  mind  to  go  too.  And  that 
started  all  the  rest.  After  that,  it  was  which  should 
go  first.  One  after  another  the  boats  were  filled,  and 
pulled  away  for  the  Grampus.  Back  they  came,  and 
filled  again.  A  longer  pull,  each  time,  to  and  fro ; 
the  Grampus  drifting,  drifting,  all  the  while,  and  the 
night  darkening  down.  When  the  last  boat  was  loaded 
with  every  soul  that  she  could  safely  carry,  there  stood 
the  Hamburg  captain  and  his  three  officers,  pale,  and 
stern,  and  brave,  refusing,  every  man  of  'em,  to  set 
foot  into  a  boat  until  the  rest  were  safe.  So  they 


154  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

pulled  away  again,  and  left  'em.  Wind  and  sea  were 
higher  than  ever,  and  the  Grampus  farther  off.  Drift 
ing,  every  moment,  away;  and  the  cloudy  twilight 
coming  on.  'Where's  the  captain  of  the  ship?' 
shouted  out  the  master  of  the  Grampus,  as  that  last 
boat  came  toward  her  with  its  load.  'Stayed  by,  sir!  ' 
was  the  answer.  'He  and  the  three  mates.  We  were 
all  full.'  'My  God!  '  cries  the  captain,  with  a  look 
at  the  scudding  clouds,  and  the  waves  with  their  white 
caps  on.  'I  can't  leave  those  fellows  behind  I  Who  '11 
pull  for  the  wreck  again?  '  'I  '11  go,  sir,'  says  Oak- 
man.  And  then,  for  half  a  minute,  nobody  else  offered. 
It  was  a  chance  if  they  ever  stood  on  that  deck  again, 
if  they  left  it  now.  Oakman  waited  that  half  minute, 
and  then,  looking  round  at  the  men,  —  I  can  see  how 
the  blue  fire  would  be  lighting  in  his  eyes,  — '  Which 
of  you  goes  with  me,  boys?  Don't  all  speak  at  once!  ' 
says  he.  So,  out  of  bravery  or  shame,  four  of  'em 
stepped  forward  then,  and  went  down  with  him  over 
the  ship's  side.  I  suppose  that  Hamburg  captain  and 
his  mates  had  said  their  prayers,  and  taken  their  leave 
of  this  world,  when  that  boat  came  climbing  up,  over  a 
great,  green  wave,  toward  the  wreck  again.  'Here  we 
are !  '  sung  out  Oakman.  The  four  men  on  the  wreck 
gave  the  beginning  of  a  shout  together,  and  stopped, 
as  it  were,  in  the  midst.  They  said  afterwards,  it  was 
to  look  round  at  each  other,  and  grasp  hands,  with 
great,  choking  sobs.  Two  minutes  more  and  they  were 
in  the  boat,  pulling,  for  their  lives,  up  and  down  those 
awful  sea-ridges,  toward  where  they  hoped  to  find  the 
Grampus.  And  from  the  peak  of  one,  as  it  lifted  them, 
they  saw  the  Adelheid  make  a  great  swirl,  and  go 
down. " 

"  Did  they  get  back  safe  to  the  Grampus  ?  "  asked 
Say,  breathless,  when  the  captain  paused. 

"To  be  sure!  "  he  replied  lightly.  "Hasn't  Oak 
man  just  come  home  with  me,  in  the  Pearl  ?  " 


THE  PEAEL.  155 

"Oh,  would  n't  you  like  to  be  such  a  man,  Gershie  ?  " 
cried  Say. 

Gershom  sat  still,  and  made  no  answer,  now.  In 
his  heart  he  said  to  himself  that,  if  he  lived,  he  meant 
to  be  such  a  man. 

After  this  story,  Mr.  Gair  and  the  captain  got  to 
talking  about  Hamburg,  and  Elsinore,  and  Copenhagen, 
and  St.  Petersburg,  and  the  Russia  trade,  till  Say 
curled  herself  up  on  the  end  of  the  sofa,  and  went  to 
sleep ;  soothed  by  a  confused,  dreamy  repetition  oi 
hemp,  and  duck,  and  bolt-rope,  and  pig-iron,  and  du 
ties,  and  consignments,  and  bills  of  exchange,  and 
Steiglitz  and  Co. ;  and  Gershom  sat,  half  listening, 
going  over  again,  all  the  while,  in  imagination,  the 
scenes  on  board  the  disabled  Pearl,  and  the  foundering 
Adelheid;  till,  by  and  by,  at  ten  o'clock,  the  captain 
departed,  and  the  boy,  as  well  as  Say,  went  off  to 
bed;  not  to  sleep;  to  lie  awake  till  after  the  slow, 
deep  voices  of  the  city  bells  had  clanged  out,  one  to 
another,  from  different  points,  the  strokes  of  twelve ; 
as  a  thought,  wrought  slowly  toward  the  birth,  in 
different  souls,  announces  itself  at  last,  from  opposite 
sides  the  earth,  when  the  hour  is  ripe ;  thinking,  fe 
verishly,  of  all  that  he  had  heard ;  of  the  free,  brave 
life  that  enticed  him  forth  to  make  it  his  own ;  of  the 
ties  that  held  him  to  his  home  among  the  hills;  of 
.  how  he  would  write  to  his  grandfather,  and  tell  him, 
truly,  all  he  felt ;  and  of  what  he  should  say. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

PROVERBS. 

"BUT  I  thought  you  were  all  fitted  for  college ?  * 
said  Mr.  Gair,  with  a  fresh  recollection  and  surprise. 
He  had  been  considerably  surprised  this  afternoon. 

"Yes,  sir,"  returned  Gershom.  "But  grandfather 
always  said  that  fitted  for  college  was  fitted  for  any 
thing.  He  never  made  me  feel  as  if  I  had  got  to  go." 

"I  don't  want  to  be  the  means  of  your  disappointing 
him,  though, "  rejoined  the  merchant.  "I  shouldn't 
feel  warranted  in  encouraging  such  a  notion,  unless  I 
knew  what  he  would  say  to  it,  first." 

"No,  sir.  That 's  what  I  mean  to  find  out.  But 
I  did  n't  want  to  trouble  him  at  all  till  I  knew 
whether  I  could  have  a  chance  or  not." 

"What  do  you  say  to  all  this,  Captain  Burley?  " 

The  two  gentlemen  sat  in  Mr.  Gair's  inner  count 
ing-room.  The  boy  stood  there,  before  them,  cap  in 
hand,  his  eyes  glowing,  his  whole  face  eager  with  the 
intensity  of  the  wish  he  had  come  there  to  make 
known. 

"I  should  say."  replied  the  hearty  captain,  looking 
upon  the  lad  with  a  certain  approving  recognition, 
"that  he  'd  got  it." 

"What?" 

"Ship  fever.  The  sort  that  nothing  but  a  voyage  '11 
work  off.  And  not  that,  if  he  's  the  stuff  he  looks  to 
be, "  he  added,  in  an  undertone  to  Mr.  Gair. 

"  Could  you  find  a  berth  for  him  aboard  the  Pearl  ?  " 

The  young  fellow's  eyes  glistened,  and  flashed  quick 
at  Captain  Burley  from  under  their  thick  lashes.  His 


PEOVEEBS.  157 

fingers  crushed  nervously  upon  his  cap  brim.  Captain 
Burley  saw  it,  although  he  seemed  to  be  looking  out 
of  the  window. 

"There  's  a  berth  for  him  somewhere,  I  guess. 
Always  a  place  in  this  world  for  everything  that 's 
made,  and  he  's  made  for  a  sailor,  if  I  know  the  signs. 
Write  to  your  grandfather,  young  man ;  and  when  you 
get  your  answer,  come  down  aboard  the  Pearl,  and  let 
me  know." 

"Thank  you,  sir."  With  a  great  gulp  back  of  his 
heart  into  its  place,  that  had  seemed  to  spring  into  his 
throat  with  the  sudden  throb  of  joy.  "Uncle  Reu 
ben!  " 

"Well?" 

"I  think,  if  you  please,  we  might  as  well  not  say 
any  more-  about  this  till  we  hear  from  Hilbury.  I 
don't  think  I  could  bear  being  disappointed  of  it,  if  it 
were  much  talked  over." 

"There  's  where  you  're  right,  boy.  We  '11  say  no 
more  till  Saturday.  Write  to-day,  and  you  '11  get 
your  answer  by  then.  The  Pearl  won't  sail  for  a 
week,  at  least.  An  hour's  notice  will  be  long  enough 
to  get  your  outfit." 

Mr.  Gair  turned  round  to  his  desk  and  his  papers. 
Gershom  went  out,  and  downstairs.  Up  the  wharf,  to 
where  the  Pearl  lay.  He  sprang  over  the  gang-plank 
and  on  board.  Getting  in  cargo.  All  bustle  and 
apparent  confusion.  He  went  forward  and  leaned 
against  the  bulwark,  looking  over  the  bow.  He  laid 
his  hand  lovingly  on  the  solid  timbers,  as  if  the  vessel 
was  a  living  thing,  to  be  caressed  and  delighted  in 
with  a  tenderness.  He  looked  down  into  the  fore 
castle.  That  was  to  be  his  home.  Here  he  should 
have  bold,  brave  fellows  for  companions ;  here  he 
should  listen  to  stories  of  daring  and  danger,  and  the 
wild,  strange  happenings  of  sea-life,  and  the  wonders 


158  THE  GAY  WORTHY  S. 

of  far-off  lands.  Here  he  should  grow  strong  and 
hardy  for  great  deeds  of  his  own.  It  was  all  a  poem 
and  a  romance.  He  never  thought  of  brutal  captains, 
or  of  coarse,  degraded  men;  of  mean  tyrannies,  or  low 
contaminations;  of  all  he  might  meet,  all  he  must 
meet,  in  an  apprenticeship  of  years  to  this  profession 
that  he  would  choose.  He  was  to  look  up  to  men  like 
Buiiey  and  Oakman;  he  was  to  stand,  by  and  by,  in 
places  like  theirs.  The  captain's  words  were  ringing 
in  his  ears :  "  God  looks  down  out  of  heaven  on  no 
braver  nor  better  thing!  " 

He  stood  there,  with  the  firm,  even  deck  under  his 
feet,  and  longed  to  feel  it  bounding  away  upon  the  free 
ocean  that  he  knew  only  in  fancy.  To  be  out  there, 
"between  sea  and  sky,"  even  if  it  were  "in  mortal 
peril!" 

Captain  Burley  had  said  right.  It  was  a  fever  that 
was  upon  him.  The  fever  that  a  boy  must  have  —  if 
the  boy  be  but  the  possibility  of  a  man  —  when  the 
fire  within  him  kindles,  whatever  it  may  be  that  sets 
it  alight.  Books,  or  tools,  or  soldiering,  or  sea-far 
ing,  —  it  is  all  the  same,  —  the  force  that  is  in  him 
wakes,  and  grasps  at  something;  and  the  soul  that  is 
in  him  lifts  that  something  up,  and  idealizes  it  into  a 
divineness  of  life,  and  wreathes  it  with  a  glory.  Most 
of  all,  perhaps,  when,  from  a  quiet  country  life  like 
Gershom's  back  among  the  hills,  — where  he  has 
dreamed  of  the  great  waters,  and  the  ships  that  go  up 
and  down  thereon,  — he  comes  first  to  behold  the  in 
finite  glitter  of  the  sea,  and  his  eyes  are  smitten  -with 
its  far-off  gleam,  and  the  tingle  of  its  brine  is  in  his 
nostrils,  till  he  chafes  to  be  off  and  away  upon  it,  and 
any  dry-land  life  grows  tame  compared  with  its  bound 
less  promise,  its  rousing  demand  upon  all  his  flushing 
manhood. 

There  is  no  possession  like  the  possession  of  the  boy 
who  craves  to  be  a  sailor. 


PROVERBS.  159 

Gershom  could  not  have  gone  straight  out  from  that 
counting-room  and  gone  up  those  stifled  streets  prop 
erly,  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  and  there  were  no 
need  for  him,  any  more  than  for  all  the  rest  of  the 
lubberly  people,  to  throw  up  his  cap  with  a  shout, 
when  words  were  thrilling  in  his  ears  that  offered  a 
fulfillment  of  this  hope  of  his  that  had  slumbered  within 
him,  growing  stronger  in  its  sleep,  for  years.  He 
must  needs  have  stood  first,  for  those  few  moments, 
on  the  deck  of  the  Pearl  once  more. 

Then  he  walked  up  through  the  town  to  Hill  Street, 
quietly  enough  to  outward  show,  but  with  a  bound  in 
his  veins  that  made  the  bricked  sidewalk  seem  to  spring 
beneath  his  feet ;  his  young  brain  busy  with  all  man 
ner  of  eager  thoughts. 

"Gershie  's  got  his  door  locked!  "  cried  Say,  in  an 
ill-used  voice,  an  hour  or  two  after.  "And  when  I 
called  to  him,  he  told  me  to  run  away.  And  I  have  n't 
got  anything  to  do ;  and  I  wanted  him  to  play  Happi 
ness  with  me;  and  it  '11  be  tea-time  presently." 

Mrs.  Gair's  face  took  on  a  cloudy  expression.  "He  's 
mighty  independent,  I  think, "  said  she,  more  to  her 
self  than  to  the  child,  "considering  all  things." 

"He  would  n't  take  me  down  to  the  wharf,  this 
afternoon.  And  he  's  been  shut  up  in  his  room  ever 
since  he  got  home." 

Mrs.  Gair's  face  grew  suddenly  placid.  Her  tone 
.smoothed  itself,  also;  and  it  was  a  very  sweet  and 
timely  admonition  to  unselfishness  that  she  was  all  at 
once  inspired  to  give  her  little  daughter. 

"Well,  never  mind,  Say.  He  '11  come  presently. 
I  suppose  he  wants  to  be  by  himself,  sometimes.  You 
must  n't  be  exacting.  It  is  very  wrong  and  disagree 
able  for  little  girls  to  expect  older  people  to  attend  to 
them  all  the  time." 

Say  seldom  persisted  in  the  wrong  and  disagreeable. 


160  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

She  had  been  very  patient,  already;  and  appealed  only 
when  her  small  endurance  had  been  tried  nearly  too 
far.  She  sat  down  to  Happiness  alone ;  such  happi 
ness  as  she  could  make  out  of  it  so.  That  was  the 
child's  nature.  Ah,  the  prophecies  that  are  in  these 
dawning  traits  of  temperament  and  capacity!  Can 
the  child  bear  quietly,  console  itself  easily,  wait  long? 
There  is  never  a  power  without  a  demand  for  it.  It 
needs  no  reading  of  a  horoscope,  no  palmister's  divin 
ing,  to  tell  something  of  the  life-lines  of  such.  Is 
there  busy  activity,  skill,  contrivance?  An  aptitude 
to  make  much  out  of  a  little  ?  Be  sure  that  when  the 
germs  of  these  were  hidden  in  the  baby  brain,  there 
was  no  ''silver  spoon  "  laid  ready  for  the  lips. 

Mrs.  Gair  got  up  presently  and  left  the  room. 
When  she  reentered,  five  minutes  afterward,  her  face 
was  even  more  beautifully  serene  than  before.  She 
told  her  parlor-maid,  who  came  to  lay  the  table  in  the 
inner  room,  that  tea  need  not  be  hurried ;  Mr.  Gair 
had  not  come  in ;  in  fact,  she  was  busy  herself,  and 
should  not  object  to  its  being  half  an  hour  later  than 
usual.  A  little  momentary  pause  that  she  had  made, 
upstairs,  before  a  closed  door,  might  or  might  not  have 
had  to  do  with  this.  I  should  not  like  to  say  she 
stooped,  as  well  as  paused,  there,  for  an  instant.  Peo 
ple  do  stoop,  sometimes,  however,  —  when  there  is 
something  they  have  special  occasion  to  pick  up. 

Gershom  Vorse  was  busy  writing  his  letter  to  the 
doctor.  By  and  by  his  step  came  down  the  stairs. 
A  little  softly,  I  must  own ;  for  Gershom  had  his  own 
business  to  manage,  now ;  and  he  had  learned  that  in 
Mrs.  Jane  Gair's  house,  business  must  often  be  man 
aged  softly.  Mrs.  Jane  heard  him,  however;  saying 
nothing,  but  making  a  sudden  noise  with  pulling  the 
heavy  table  a  little  nearer  to  herself,  instead  of  moving 
her  easily  rolling  chair  toward  the  table.  Gershom  got 


PROVERBS.  161 

by  the  parlor  door  and  out  into  the  street  without  re 
call  or  hindrance.  At  the  risk  of  being  late  to  tea, 
and  getting  a  glum  look  from  Aunt  Jane,  he  must  post 
his  letter,  himself,  to-night.  Aunt  Jane  knew  that, 
perhaps,  as  well  as  he  did.  But  tea  was  a  little  late, 
as  we  have  seen  it  was  meant  to  be ;  and  Mr.  Gair  was 
still  chatting,  with  Say  upon  his  knee,  when  Gershom 
came  in ;  his  face  flushed  and  his  hair  damp,  with  all 
the  exercise  he  had  taken,  and  the  excitement  he  had 
had,  that  warm,  summer-like  May  afternoon. 

"Well,  Gershom,"  said  Mr.  Gair,  as  he  cut  off  two 
or  three  of  the  curling  spines  from  the  form  of  fresh 
butter,  that  was  done  up,  in  a  way  they  had  in  Hil- 
bury,  like  a  golden  pineapple,  by  some  mysterious 
dinting  and  shaving,  "have  you  attended  to  your  affairs 
as  you  proposed  ?  " 

Mr.  Gair  was  always  flying  kites,  and  catching  the 
electric  current ;  learning  no  wisdom  by  getting  so  much 
more  of  it,  often,  than  he  at  all  wanted.  Gershom 
wondered  at  Uncle  Reuben's  way  of  keeping  a  secret; 
and  felt,  with  a  flash  of  dismay,  that  it  was  all  out, 
now,  hopelessly ;  and  must  be  discussed,  over  and  over, 
through  and  through.  Aunt  Jane  was  quick  on  the 
scent,  and  a  thorough  mouser;  no  small  rodent  could 
show  nose  or  tail  out  of  his  hole  with  any  hope  of 
whisking  it  back  again  in  safety  from  her  nimble  claw. 
But  somebody  caught  something,  once,  and  let  it  go 
again;  to  grow.  Aunt  Jane  was  busy  with  the  tea 
pot,  which,  she  told  the  maid,  had  grown  cold;  and 
bade  her,  with  some  displeasure,  fetch  boiling  water. 
"I  have  told  you  so  often,  Winny,  that  Mr.  Gair 
must  have  his  tea  hot."  And  when  she  turned  round 
again,  it  was  to  admonish  Say  to  sit  straight,  and  tuck 
her  napkin  under  her  chin,  and  to  keep  her  elbows  off 
the  table.  Gershom  only  said  "Yes,  sir,"  and  found, 
to  his  very  great  surprise  and  relief,  that  question  and 
answer  both  passed  unnoticed. 


162  THE  GAYWORTHTS. 

It  was  astonishing  how  Aunt  Jane  entered  into  the 
children's  amusements  that  evening!  She  played  Hap 
piness  with  them ;  and  then  they  had  out  the  bagatelle 
board,  which  she  usually  opposed;  the  balls,  she  said, 
made  her  so  nervous.  But  she  rolled,  herself,  to 
night  ;  and  people  don't  mind  a  noise  when  they  help 
to  make  it.  She  kept  them  ingeniously  busy;  so  that 
Say  was  confounded  when  the  nine  o'clock  bell  rang; 
and  after  the  child  had  gone  to  bed,  Mr.  Gair  being 
quite  absorbed  in  his  "Journal  of  Commerce,"  Mrs. 
Gair  took  up  the  "Lady's  Book,"  and  when  she  was 
reading,  nobody  ever  talked.  Gershom  was  rapt  and 
happy  in  Ross's  "Voyages."  For  the  most  part, 
therefore,  there  was  a  pin-drop  silence,  until  they  sep 
arated  for  the  night.  Mrs.  Gair  was  reading,  appar 
ently,  and  looking  at  fashions ;  really,  she  was  playing 
proverbs:  "None  so  deaf  as  those  who  won't  hear," 
and  "Let  well  enough  alone." 

I  have  no  doubt  that  if  Mrs.  Jane  had  been  only 
half  as  determined  to  hear  as  she  was  not  to  hear,  the 
whole  matter  would  have  come  out,  upstairs,  after  all, 
in  matrimonial  retirement.  But  she  was  very  tired, 
and  not  conversationally  disposed. 

It  is  sometimes  so  well  to  have  known  nothing. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE    EXPECTANT    SYSTEM. 

Now,  Mrs.  Gair  exploded.  Now,  Mrs.  Gair  was 
righteously  indignant  at  this  that  had  been  done.  Now, 
it  was  quite  safe  to  use  the  utmost  of  her  breath 
against  the  flame,  and  she  blew  accordingly. 

"  Well !  I  wash  my  hands  of  the  whole  thing.  No 
body  consulted  me.  Gershom  has  been  very  sly.  He 
knew  I  disapproved  his  going  so  much  to  the  wharf, 
and  hanging  about  the  Pearl.  I  saw  what  it  was  likely 
to  come  to.  I  told  him  a  week  ago  that  I  must  write 
to  his  grandfather  about  it,  and  that  's  what  I  ought  to 
have  done.  It 's  a  great  shame  for  him  to  disap 
point  father  so,  after  all  his  kindness ;  and  I  doubt  if 
he  finds  it  answer  to  his  interest,  in  the  end.  But 
it's  no  use  to  talk.  There  isn't  any  help  for  it, 
now.  They  can't  blame  me,  at  any  rate." 

"But  perhaps  it  can  be  helped,"  returned  Mr.  Gair, 
quite  overwhelmed  by  his  wife's  view  of  the  subject, 
and  the  sudden  sense  it  gave  him  of  his  own  guilt. 
"Gershom  wouldn't  persist,  if  he  thought  it  was  such 
a  serious  matter  with  the  old  gentleman.  Had  n't 
you  better  speak  to  him  again?  " 

"No,  I've  done.  The  fancy  ought  to  have  been 
kept  out  of  his  head,  in  the  first  place.  Now  it 's 
there,  and  father  knows  it,  there  's  nothing  more  to 
be  said.  He  would  n't  send  him  to  college  against  his 
inclinations;  but  what  he  hoped  was,  that  he  might 
incline  to  go.  It's  all  up  with,  now;  the  milk's 
spilt;  and  it 's  no  use  making  anybody  uneasy.  Only, 
don't  let  them  blame  me.  I've  been  kept  in  the 
dark." 


164  THE  GAY  WORTHY  S. 

Mr.  Gair  began  to  feel  quite  miserable.  As  if  he 
had  been  doing  something  mean  and  secret ;  working 
against  his  father-in-law's  wish  and  will.  As  if  he 
had  done  Gershom,  too,  a  vital  disservice.  This 
splash,  and  sense  of  uncleanness,  he  got  by  standing 
by  while  his  wife  "washed  her  hands." 

Do  you  suppose  Mrs.  Gair  saw  her  own  double-deal 
ing  in  its  true  light?  I  don't.  It  is  only  to  the  sin 
gle  eye  that  self  stands  illumined.  In  the  body  that 
is  full  of  darkness  there  are  secret  lurking-places  be 
low  where  vision  reaches;  and  here  lie  motives  that 
are  never  looked  at;  thoughts  that  are  never  set  in 
words;  involuntary  springs  that  send  out  their  odylic 
force  without  the  intervention  of  even  mental  muscle. 
I  think  she  told  herself  with  a  certain  real  outside 
indignation,  strangely  coexisting  with  a  more  interior 
satisfaction,  that  she  had  been  set  aside,  —  unfairly 
treated.  And  she  made  the  most,  to  herself  as  well 
as  to  others,  of  her  injury  and  her  position.  None  the 
less  an  injury  because  of  the  great  good  luck  she  felt 
it,  and  the  hidden  intention  she  had  had,  all  along, 
of  being  treated  precisely  so.  This  she  never  took 
into  the  account.  She  meant  to  do  nothing  unjustifi 
able  ;  she  had  done  nothing.  She  had  seen  how  things 
were  tending;  very  well,  let  them  tend;  now,  they 
had  resulted,  and  she  stood  absolved.  If,  as  it  turned 
out,  it  were  all  the  better  for  her,  what  then  ?  She 
might  not  be  sorry  to  have  Prue's  great  boy  well  out 
of  the  way ;  she  might  not  be  sorry  if  even  his  altered 
course  in  life  should  alter  her  father's  intentions  to 
ward  him;  yet,  all  the  same,  he  had  put  himself  out 
of  the  way,  of  his  own  free  will.  He  himself  had 
forfeited  whatever  he  might  lose.  It  was  no  doing  of 
hers.  If  he  sailed  away,  some  day,  and  never  came 
back,  even,  —  there  were  many  chances  of  this  in  a 
sea  life,  —  the  responsibility  lay  not  at  her  door. 


THE  EXPECTANT  SYSTEM.  165 

Jane  Gair !  You  will  not  find  yourself  able,  to  the 
very  end,  to  forward  your  intents  thus  passively. 
Practice  upon  the  "  expectant  "  theory  will  not  suffice 
for  all  crises.  There  will  come  test  hours,  when  the 
hand  must  be  put  forth,  or  stayed ;  when  the  seal  of 
deed  must  be  set  to  the  secret  motive.  Satan  will 
have  nothing  less  than  the  sign-manual  of  his  own,  at 
the  last. 

There  had  come  an  answer  from  Hilbury.  Kindly, 
free-hearted;  indicating  little  of  the  pain  that  must 
have  lain  behind.  "I  am  sure,"  said  Mr.  Gair,  read 
ing  it  over  for  the  second  time,  after  that  unpleasant 
sense  of  complicity  had  been  put  upon  him,  "I  don't 
see  that  the  doctor  takes  it  so  much  to  heart,  after 
all." 

"There  is  scope  for  nobleness  in  every  profession," 
wrote  the  good  old  physician,  in  reply  to  Gershom's 
enthusiastic  reasoning  in  behalf  of  his  desire.  "It 
takes  a  whole  man  to  be  really  anything.  And  even 
physical  bravery  may  come  in  play,  as  you  would  find, 
not  seldom,  in  the  pursuit  of  a  vocation  that  must  now 
and  then  set  a  man's  thought  for  his  own  life  and 
limb,  to  say  nothing  of  comfort,  against  his  care  for 
lives  and  limbs  of  others.  I  have  spent  many  a  dark 
night  among  the  hills  here,  whose  peril  was  not  less, 
perhaps,  than  that  of  the  sailor  in  the  same  dark 
night,  at  sea ;  alone,  too,  I  and  my  old  nag ;  God  with 
us,  as  everywhere,  —  that  was  all.  And  there  have 
been  men  of  my  calling  in  camps  and  hospitals,  in 
times  of  war  and  pestilence,  and  will  need  to  be,  now 
and  then,  as  long  as  the  world  lasts,  as  brave  in  the 
face  of  death  and  destruction  as  God  ever  let  a  great 
soul  be. 

.  .  .  "Yet,  if  your  whole  heart  is  bent  on  this, 
—  go,  boy,  and  God  bless  you !  Come  first,  and  say 
good-by,  though,  if  you  can. " 


166  THE  GAYWOBTHYS. 

This  letter,  with  one  also  from  his  mother,  Ger- 
shom  got  on  Saturday  evening,  sent  down  by  way 
of  Winthorpe.  On  Sunday,  the  subject  was  first 
broached  openly  in  the  household  in  Hill  Street.  We 
have  seen  how  it  was  met  by  Mrs.  Gair.  She  washed 
her  hands  of  the  whole  thing,  and  went  to  church. 
She  was  a  zealous  churchwoman,  here  in  Selport,  where 
Episcopalianism  was  the  height  of  fashion;  and  sat, 
every  Sunday,  in  a  pew  behind  the  Topliffs,  in  the 
handsomest  sacred  edifice  in  town.  She  prayed  God, 
to-day,  with  all  the  people,  to  "defend  and  provide 
for  the  fatherless  children  and  widows ;  "  to  deliver 
her  from  "evil  and  mischief,"  and  "privy  conspiracy." 
And  all  the  while,  away  down  in  that  dark  place  of 
her  heart,  among  its  unexamined  things,  the  thought 
was  lying,  pulsing  out  by  snatches,  —  never  acknow 
ledged  or  entire,  — like  a  phosphoric  writing:  "He 
has  made  his  own  bed,  now,  and  must  lie  upon  it. 
The  thing  works  well."  Then,  the  glimmer  of  a 
doubt,  —  "Father  is  foolishly  indulgent  and  patient 
with  him,  after  all.  What  if  it  shouldn't  make  any 
particular  difference  ?  "  Still,  in  the  fine  soul-type  I 
have  spoken  of  before ;  not  looked  upon  deliberately, 
or  read.  Heart-evil  does  not  denude  itself  in  shame 
less  monologue.  It  never  sets  itself  off,  objectively, 
even  to  its  most  secret  consciousness.  Mrs.  Gair  was 
making  her  responses  in  the  Litany;  and  she  made 
them  all,  even  to  the  last ;  feeling  no  shudder  of  dread 
at  her  desert,  when  to  the  utterance,  "Lord,  deal  not 
with  us  according  to  our  sins, "  she  answered,  with  the 
rest,  "Neither  reward  us  according  to  our  iniquities." 

"  Do  you  think  grandfather  is  very  sorry  about  it  ?  " 
asked  Gershom  suddenly,  when  he  and  Aunt  Jane  were 
walking  home  together  from  afternoon  service. 

"If  you  had  asked  my  advice  before,  Gershom, 
which  you  didn't "  (Mrs.  Gair  meant  that  this  should 


THE  EXPECTANT  SYSTEM.  167 

be  well  kept  in  mind),  "I  should  have  said  he  would 
be  very  sorry,  perhaps  angry;  but  he  seems  to  take  it 
more  contentedly  than  I  could  have  supposed.  He 
wanted  you.  to  be  a  doctor,  and  come  after  him ; 
there  's  no  doubt  of  that ;  and  perhaps  if  you  'd  known 
exactly  on  which  side  your  bread  was  buttered,  you  'd 
have  made  up  your  mind  to ;  but  children  always  man 
age  to  drop  the  buttered  side  down,  and  seem  to  like 
it  all  the  better ;  and  if,  as  he  says,  your  whole  heart 
is  bent  on  this  thing,  instead,  he  's  glad  that  you 
should  tell  him,  honestly.  I  dare  say  he  '11  get  recon 
ciled.  Especially,  if  you  show  him  you  can  stick  to 
your  choice,  now  you  've  made  it." 

"No  danger  but  I  '11  do  that,"  said  the  boy. 

"He  knows,  at  any  rate,  there  's  nothing  mean- 
spirited  in  your  motives,"  said  Aunt  Jane  encourag 
ingly;  "and  I  will  say  —  for  it  's  as  well  to  look  on 
the  bright  side  when  a  thing  is  settled  —  that  it  may 
appear  better  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  perhaps,  than 
if  you  hung  round,  all  your  life,  dependent  on  what 
he  could  do  for  you;  being,  you  know,  Gershie,  no 
blood  relation,  after  all." 

Wherever  the  current  sprang  from  that  ran  in  the 
boy's  veins,  it  tingled  a  little,  swiftly  and  sharply,  as 
Aunt  Jane  said  this ;  and  a  sudden  quickened  percep 
tion  startled  him  with  a  glimpse  at  the  depth  of  her 
meaning.  Nobody  had  ever  reminded  Gershom,  in 
plain  words,  before,  that  he  did  not  belong,  by  claim 
of  nature,  to  those  whose  love  and  care  he  had  received, 
and  to  whom  he  had  returned  the  love,  and  such  service 
as  he  could  render,  for  all  those  years  of  his  young 
life;  and  the  reminder  thrust  him  offi,  for  the  first 
time,  from  his  unquestioning  reliance.  Truly,  life 
and  death  are  in  the  power  of  the  tongue !  It  would 
have  irked  him  sorely,  now,  after  those  few  words,  to 
go  back  t  j  the  old  place  again,  and  make  his  home 


168  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

there,  if  he  had  not  already  chosen  otherwise.  Some 
thing  brought  back  to  his  mind,  also,  associated  with 
these,  those  other  words  Aunt  Jane  had  used,  that 
evening  when  they  talked  together  in  the  parlor  win 
dow  at  twilight.  "That  depends  on  what  there  is  to 
go  back  for.  People  must  think  what  is  for  their 
interest. "  She  could  talk  both  ways,  then  ?  Or  did 
her  words  tend  two  ways  ?  They  touched  him  with  a 
like  feeling;  a  feeling  that  became  now,  all  at  once, 
quite  definite.  She  was  so  ready  to  "look  at  the 
bright  side,  now  all  was  settled !  "  She  had  been  ap 
parently  so  displeased  when  the  plan  was  first  made 
known  to  her,  that  very  morning!  What  did  Aunt 
Jane  mean?  Did  she  approve  or  disapprove?  Was 
she,  as  he  used  to  say  of  her  fine  notions  and  manners, 
in  his  rude,  honest  childhood,  all  a  sham  ?  He  drew 
away  a  little  from  her  side  toward  the  curbstone,  as 
these  thoughts  ran  through  his  mind;  he  drew  away 
yet  farther,  in  spirit ;  as  he  had  never  drawn  himself 
from  human  soul  before.  The  first  chill  of  intimate 
distrust  had  touched  him,  with  a  shiver.  In  this 
world  there  must  be  offenses ;  but  woe  to  that  one  by 
whom  the  offense  first  cometh! 

It  was  a  hard  day's  journey,  then,  from  the  city  to 
Hilbury,  and  the  stage  that  "connected"  with  the 
trains  to  and  from  Selport  ran  up  and  down  on  alter 
nate  days;  meeting  the  afternoon  "down  train"  on 
Monday,  and  waiting  for  mail  and  passengers  by  Tues 
day  morning's  "up."  So  Gershom  was  to  report  him 
self  aboard  the  Pearl  on  Monday;  sign  his  shipping 
articles,  and  go  with  his  uncle  to  get  his  "protection," 
and  his  sea  rig;  and  on  Tuesday,  make  his  hasty  jour 
ney  to  say  good-by,  returning  on  Wednesday;  since 
to  put  it  off  till  Friday  would  be  too  late.  The  Pearl 
would  probably  sail  on  Thursday,  or  on  Friday  morn 
ing  at  farthest.  Thus  the  plan  stood  until  at  noon 


THE  EXPECTANT  SYSTEM.  169 

on  Monday;  when  Mr.  Gair  and  Gershom,  returning 
together  to  the  counting-room  from  the  Custom  House, 
found  Captain  Burley  waiting  there. 

"I  think,  sir,"  said  he  to  Mr.  Gair,  "that  we  could 
clear  to-morrow  as  well  as  not,  and  be  off  next  morn 
ing,  if  this  weather  holds.  We  must  look  for  a  change 
at  the  new  moon,  and  a  day's  start,  with  such  a  wind 
as  this,  might  make  a  week's  difference  in  the  voy 
age.  " 

"That  's  true,"  rejoined  the  merchant.  "Can 
Peterson  manage  it  ?  " 

"He  says  so,  if  those  last  fifty  bales  get  down  in 
time." 

"I  '11  see  to  that.  Come  in  to-morrow  at  ten,  and 
I  '11  have  your  papers  ready.  I  guess  we  '11  get  her 
off.  But,  hallo!  here's  this  youngster.  What  are 
we  going  to  do  about  him  ?  " 

"  *  Time  and  tide  wait  for  no  man, '  "  said  Captain 
Burley  good-humoredly.  "Nor  a  good  vessel,  when 
she  's  ready  for  sea,  with  a  fair  wind.  I  suppose  it 
must  be  'go  or  stay  '  with  him.  Are  you  sailor  enough 
to  say  'go,'  and  write  your  good-bys?  That  is,  if 
you  must  have  anything  to  do  with  them.  /  never  do. 
Just  take  my  hat  and  walk  off;  and  they  never  know 
when  it 's  the  last  time." 

The  child  and  the  man  struggled  together  with  Ger 
shom  at  that  moment.  He  was  boy  enough  to  yearn 
for  his  mother's  kiss  before  he  went;  he  was  too  much 
a  man  to  shrink  from  what  he  had  voluntarily  chosen. 
He  was  sailor  enough,  or  it  seemed  so,  then,  to  feel 
that  he  could  not  let  the  beautiful  Pearl  go  down  that 
blue  horizon,  leaving  him  behind. 

"I  suppose  there  wouldn't  be  much  chance  of  her 
not  sailing?  "  he  asked. 

"Not  much,  I  guess,  if  Captain  Burley  has  made 
up  his  mind." 


170  THE  GAYWOBTHYS. 

"Then  I  say  'go,'"  said  Gershom,  with  steady 
tone  and  eye,  and  a  tender  curve  of  lip  that  in  no  way 
weakened,  but  rather  drew  a  dash  of  emphasis  below 
his  word. 

"You  're  the  sort.  Come  aboard  at  nine,  on 
Wednesday,"  said  the  captain. 

On  Tuesday,  two  letters  crossed  each  other  between 
Selport  and  Hilbury.  Gershom  had  written  to  his 
mother  on  Monday  evening,  saying  how  it  was,  and 
that  he  must  bid  good-by  so.  or  relinquish  the  voyage 
for  which  all  his  preparations  were  now  made ;  saying 
this  in  a  sturdy,  matter-of-fact  way  on  paper,  while 
his  hand  went  up  from  the  very  writing  to  brush  away 
a  tear  his  mother  might  not  know  of.  Manly  words, 
with  a  child's  homesick  tenderness  at  heart.  He 
thanked  his  grandfather  for  his  consent  and  help ;  and 
after  that  word  of  Aunt  Jane's,  could  not  forbear  add 
ing  that  "now  he  was  put  in  the  way  of  fulfilling  this 
great  wish  that  he  had  had  so  long,  he  felt  sure  he 
need  never  again  be  any  trouble  or  anxiety  to  them  at 
home ;  he  could  make  a  place  and  an  independence  for 
himself  in  the  world ;  which  was  what  he  ought  to  be 
able  for,  after  all  that  had  been  done  for  him  in  the 
past."  These  words  of  a  proud  gratitude  touched  the 
good  doctor  a  little  sorely. 

Mrs.  Vorse  wrote  a  letter  to  her  step-sister  on  Mon 
day,  which  she  sent  down  to  Winthorpe  by  a  private 
hand.  It  came  into  Selport  by  Tuesday's  evening 
mail,  and  Mr.  Gair  received  it  at  the  office,  on  his 
way  home  at  nine  o'clock,  from  a  meeting  upon  a  ref 
erence  case.  Gershom  had  gone  up  to  bed  when  he 
came  in  and  handed  it  to  his  wife. 

"Anything  special?"  he  asked,  as  Mrs.  Gair 
glanced  down  the  pages. 

"Oh,  no,"  Jane  replied.  "Pretty  much,  I  suppose, 
what  she  has  written  to  Gershom  himself.  Motherly 


THE  EXPECTANT  SYSTEM.  171 

directions;  she  wants  me  to  see  to  this  and  that  for 
him  which  she  can't  be  here  to  see  to  herself.  No 
thing,  I  believe,  but  what  has  been  done." 

"I  suppose  they've  been  looking  for  him  to-night; 
it  '11  be  considerable  of  a  disappointment." 

"Ye — s, "  said  Mrs.  Gair  absently.  Her  eye  had 
fallen  upon  this  little  postscript  to  the  letter. 

"Of  course  we  shall  expect  him  up  to-morrow.  If 
it  was  n't  for  that,  I  don't  think  we  could  have  con 
sented  at  all.  Tell  him  this.  I  must  see  him  again ; 
and  his  grandfather  will  take  it  almost  harder  than  I, 
not  to  say  good-by  to  him.  Don't  let  him,  on  any 
account,  be  prevented  from  coming,  if  he  has  not  left 
for  home  before  this  reaches  you.  To  tell  you  the 
truth,  Jane,  though  there  is  no  need  for  any  special 
w<3rry,  I  don't  think  the  doctor  seems  quite  so  smart 
as  common  this  spring.  I  can  see  he  's  a  good  deal 
down-hearted  about  letting  Gershom  go,  though  he 
makes  no  opposition,  and  I  can't  help  being  afraid  it 
may  wear  upon  him." 

Mrs.  Gair  put  the  letter  in  her  pocket.  She  went 
round,  presently,  setting  back  the  chairs,  and  looking 
to  the  window  fastenings,  for  the  night.  Fastening 
something  else,  also,  back  in  her  own  knowledge,  for 
the  over-night,  at  least. 

Should  she  tell  Gershom  in  the  morning  of  this  that 
his  mother  had  written  ?  She  would  not  decide  within 
herself  that  she  should  not;  she  would  consider. 
Neither  would  she  show  the  whole  letter  to  her  hus 
band,  and  ask  him  what  ought  to  be  done.  Ah,  that 
might  decide  it  too  precipitately!  So  she  went  to 
bed,  first  laying  the  letter  in  a  little  side  drawer  of 
her  bureau,  among  others  that  had  come  from  home. 

With  the  dark  hours  came  thoughts  and  misgiving. 
She  hardly  dared  withhold  this  word  from  the  boy. 
She  wished  Prue  had  not  written  so  foolishly,  throwing 


172  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

such  responsibility  upon  her.  She  had  been  so  resolved 
to  do  nothing  in  this  matter,  which  had  ripened  itself 
so  beautifully  to  her  wishes.  The  "expectant"  system 
had  hitherto  worked  so  well! 

In  the  morning  she  was  braver.  Her  judgment  was 
cool,  and  asserted  itself.  She  knew  best,  being  here, 
upon  the  spot,  what  was  best  to  be  done.  Prue  had 
written  in  ignorance  of  the  actual  circumstances.  There 
had  been  no  idea  that  the  vessel  was  to  sail  so  soon. 
She  had  got  Gershom's  letter,  by  this  time,  bidding 
good-by,  and  explaining  it  all.  The  thing  had  been 
settled ;  how  absurd  it  would  be  to  unsettle  it  all  again ! 
The  boy  would  be  good  for  nothing,  if  he  were  balked 
of  this  voyage  and  sent  home  now.  And,  of  course,  it 
would  be  only  cruel  to  give  him  a  discomfort  to  go  away 
with! 

She  knew  very  well,  in  her  secret  heart,  that  if  Ger- 
shom  Vorse  had  read  those  words,  even  at  the  last 
moment,  he  would  not  have  gone  away.  Bitter  as  it 
might  have  been,  he  would  have  waited. 

"It 's  very  hard,"  said  Aunt  Jane  to  herself,  as  she 
went  downstairs  to  the  breakfast  that  was  to  be  some 
what  earlier  than  usual.  Gershom's  sea-chest  stood 
inside  the  front  door.  A  carriage  was  to  come  at  half 
past  eight.  "It 's  very  hard,"  thought  the  lady,  "to 
be  placed  in  such  a  position.  I  dare  say,  whatever  I 
do,  they  '11  blame  me.  But  I  can  only  act  as  I  think 
is  for  the  best,  under  the  circumstances.  And  then, 
my  conscience  will  be  clear. " 

She  thought  it  for  the  best  to  tell  Gershom,  as  he 
rose  from  the  table,  — the  poor  fellow's  appetite  would 
have  been  quite  spoiled,  had  she  mentioned  home  news 
before,  —  that  she  had  heard  again  from  his  mother, 
chiefly  in  reference  to  the  little  matters  of  arrange 
ment  and  provision  for  the  voyage,  "which,"  she  said, 
"have  all  been  made,  I  believe,  very  much  as  she  sug- 


THE  EXPECTANT  SYSTEM.  173 

gests.     You  left  out  those  four  new  linen  shirts,  didn't 
you?      Your  mother  speaks  of  that." 

"Yes,"  Gershom  said.  "The  new  shirts  were  in 
the  valise  that  was  to  go  back  to  Hilbury. "  He  stood 
still,  an  instant,  as  if  waiting  to  hear  if  there  were  any 
more  particular  message ;  I  think  he  hardly  dared  trust 
his  voice  to  ask;  but  nothing  more  was  said.  And 
that  was  all  he  heard  about  his  mother's  letter. 

I  have  no  doubt  Mrs.  Jane  Gair's  conscience,  after 
this  wise  and  prudent  action,  in  the  hard  position  she 
found  herself  placed  in,  was  quite  clear.  People  have 
their  moral  idiosyncrasies,  which  must  always  be  taken 
into  account. 

The  Pearl  sailed  that  day  at  twelve  o'clock. 

At  the  same  hour,  the  stage  from  up-country  was 
reeling  down  the  hill  into  Baxter's  Mills  village,  the 
horses  coming  in  upon  their  customary  gallop.  Inside 
was  an  old  gentleman,  who  had  not  been  so  far  from 
home  before  in  ten  years.  Going  down,  by  the  train, 
to  Selport.  No  other  than  our  simple-hearted,  splen- 
did-souled  Hilbury  doctor. 

He  would  try  for  it.  Vessels  didn't  always  sail  on 
the  day  fixed.  There  was  fog  in  the  hills  this  morn 
ing;  and  there  might  be  —  who  could  tell?  —  south 
east  wind  and  a  coming  storm  down  there  on  the 
coast.  Mahomet  couldn't  come  to  the  mountain;  the 
mountain  would  reverse  the  proverb,  and  come  down 
to  Mahomet. 

He  had  reasoned  so  with  "the  girls,"  at  home,  last 
night,  when  the  letter  had  come  that  set  them  at  first 
looking  in  each  others'  faces  with  a  blank,  utter  disap 
pointment.  There  was  only  a  chance ;  and  Prue  had 
best  not  encounter  the  fatigue,  for  the  hope  of  it.  But 
the  doctor  would  go.  If  it  were  only  to  see  her  cast 
off  from  the  wharf,  and  shout  a  good-by,  as  the  brig 
dropped  down  the  harbor,  it  would  be  something ;  or  to 


174  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

go  out  from  the  Point,  maybe,  in  a  boat,  and  speak 
her  below.  Vessels  lay  off,  all  night,  and  for  days, 
at  anchor,  often,  in  the  fogs  that  come  up  at  this  sea 
son.  So  he  packed  his  portmanteau  before  he  went  to 
bed,  and  one  of  the  farm  boys  drove  him  down  to  the 
Bridge  in  the  morning,  to  take  the  early  stage. 

And  the  cars  rattled  and  crashed  along  their  level, 
shining  grade,  as  if  they  could  overtake  anything. 
The  swift  motion  exhilarated  the  old  doctor,  and  gave 
him  a  charming  childlike  confidence. 

"You  came  up  on  the  train  this  morning?  "  says  he 
to  the  conductor. 

"Ticket!  "  says  the  conductor  to  an  oblivious  pas 
senger  opposite,  with  a  little  backward  touch  of  the  left 
hand,  while  nodding  a  reply  to  the  doctor  on  the  right. 

"Which  way  was  the  wind,  down  there?  "  asks  the 
old  man  anxiously. 

Conductors  get  used  to  all  kinds  of  queer  questions, 
and  answer  them  usually,  if  answerable,  with  a  mechan 
ical  politeness,  not  interesting  themselves  greatly  to 
follow  out  or  piece  together  the  indicia  they  offer  to 
human  histories. 

"Getting  a  touch  of  east,  I  believe.  This  weather 
won't  hold  long.  Ticket,  sir?  "  and  passed  on.  Dr. 
Gayworthy  was  quite  certain,  now,  that  he  should  see 
his  boy. 

The  train  came  into  the  station  at  dusk.  The  wind 
was  sharp  east,  sure  enough,  and  the  smell  of  the  salt 
water  came  up  into  the  streets.  The  doctor  caught  a 
cab,  or  the  cabman  caught  the  doctor,  and  he  and  his 
portmanteau  were  whirled  up  to  Hill  Street.  Jane 
Gair  and  her  husband  were  sitting  down  to  tea  in 
the  back  parlor.  The  bell  rang,  and  somebody  came 
straight  in,  without  a  question. 

"Jane !      Where  's  the  boy  ?  " 

"Father!  You  here?  Why, —the  Pearl  sailed 
to-day  at  noon." 


THE  EXPECTANT  SYSTEM.  175 

A  look,  as  of  ten  years  suddenly  added,  fell  over 
the  good  doctor's  face.  Its  lines  dropped  from  their 
eager  hopefulness  into  a  strange,  weary,  dreary  relin- 
quishment.  He  set  down  his  portmanteau,  which  he 
had  brought  straight  into  the  room  with  him,  and 
turned  round  to  look  for  a  chair. 

"I  didn't  think  she  would  be  sure  to  get  off.  I  'm 
very  tired, "  said  he  slowly,  first  finding  out  his  fatigue 
now,  and  speaking  as  with  the  voice  of  another  man. 

They  gave  him  his  tea  and  answered  his  few  ques 
tions,  all  about  the  Pearl,  and  the  boy,  and  when  and 
from  where  they  might  first  hope  to  hear  of  him,  and 
pretty  soon  afterward  he  went  up  to  bed.  Into  the 
same  room  where  Gershom  had  slept  last  night ;  swept, 
and  aired,  and  made  up  with  fresh  linen,  since  then ; 
as  rooms  are,  out  of  which  people  have  died  and  been 
borne  away. 

And  there  the  good,  great-hearted  old  man  lay;  in 
the  sleeplessness  of  age  in  a  strange  place,  — with  all 
his  strange,  sad,  disappointed  thoughts ;  and  heard  the 
city  bells  clang  out  to  each  other,  hour  after  hour,  as 
Gershom  had  heard  them,  that  night  when  he  could 
not  sleep  for  thinking  of  all  the  brave,  beautiful  things 
that  men  had  done  in  the  world ;  and  for  the  boy-long 
ing  to  go  forth  also,  and  be  doing. 

Leagues  down,  already,  upon  the  Atlantic,  laughing 
at  the  fogs  that  lay  gathering  behind  her  along  the 
coast,  the  good  brig,  her  sails  bravely  set,  making  the 
most  of  what  favor  the  wind  had  for  her,  was  fairly 
away  upon  her  voyage,  speeding  on  toward  the  pleas 
ant  weather.  And  on  her  deck,  standing  his  first 
watch,  looking  out  under  the  stars  for  the  first  time, 
with  an  awed  surprise,  upon  the  restless  and  unmeas 
ured  sea,  walked  the  boy  of  the  hills ;  his  heart  yearn 
ing  back  to  them  secretly,  with  a  great  longing  and 
love ;  a  wish  that  he  might  once  more  have  gone  there 


176  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

to  say  good-by;  an  apprehensive  questioning  whether 
all  should  be  as  it  was,  if  he  should  come  back  safely 
and  go  home  to  them  again  by  and  by. 

So  these  two  were  separated.  Separated  also  by 
something  more  than  the  leagues  of  salt  water  that  lay 
between  them  to-night. 

A  thought  had  been  put  into  the  mind  of  each  that 
lessened  perhaps  no  love,  but  that  taught  each  to  feel 
for  the  first  time  that  he  must  learn  to  do  without  the 
other.  The  boy  would  be  henceforth  independent, 
even  of  ready  kindness,  from  the  friend  who  was  no 
"blood  relation;  "  upon  whom  he  could  have  no  legiti 
mate  claim.  The  old  man  saw  that  he  could  no  longer 
hold  to  himself  the  young  life  that  sprang  restlessly 
forth  to  its  own  place  among  the  activities  of  the 
world,  and  would  not  fall  obediently  into  a  prepared 
round. 

"He  would  go;  there  was  nothing  else  for  it,  "Jane 
had  said.  "I  don't  think  anything  whatever  could 
have  held  him  back." 

It  almost  seemed  as  if  he  had  gone  without  a  pang, 
or  a  thought  of  those  behind. 

"Yes,  yes;  it 's  the  way  of  the  young;  "  said  the 
gentle  doctor,  and  submitted. 

Jane  Gair  slept  very  well  to-night ;  after  she  had 
got  over  her  little  excitement  of  surprise  at  her  father's 
coming.  Why  not?  She  had  done  nothing.  These 
two  hearts  —  these  two  lives  —  had  drifted  away  from 
each  other ;  she  had  only  stood  by,  and  looked  on  at 
what  had  happened. 

I  assisted  once  at  a  "table-tipping;"  we  were  all 
novices,  to  be  sure;  there  was  no  "developed  me 
dium  "  among  us ;  we  wanted  the  table  to  move,  and 
move  it  did,  at  last,  apparently  by  no  physical  agency; 
we  rested  the  tips  of  our  fingers  upon  it,  and  waited; 
and  so,  by  degrees,  it  traveled  across  the  room,  we 


THE  EXPECTANT  SYSTEM.  177 

following ;  but  somebody  among  us  by  and  by,  when 
we  came  to  talk  the  wonder  over,  was  constrained  can 
didly  to  confess,  that  "she  might  have  pushed, — a 
little."  I  think  human  watching  and  waiting  for  the 
unfolding  of  circumstance  to  its  wish  is  often  of  this 
sort,  precisely ;  and  that  a  great  deal  of  will  works  it 
self  out  at  the  finger-tips,  —  it  may  be  with  the  best 
of  us.  It  is,  perhaps,  hard  to  say  at  what  point  strong 
desire  becomes  responsible. 

"  Keep  thy  heart  with  all  diligence ;  for  out  of  it 
are  the  issues  of  life." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A    SEARCH;    AND    ODYLIC    FORCE. 

DR.  GAYWORTHY  had  nothing  to  stay  for  in  Selport. 
He  had  no  curiosity  to  "look  about  the  city,"  as  his 
daughter  and  her  husband  would  have  persuaded  him 
to  do.  He  had  not  seen  it,  as  I  said,  for  ten  years 
past ;  and  it  had  grown,  as  New  England  cities  were 
growing,  in  those  comparatively  early  days  of  rail 
roads  ;  and  there  was  doubtless  much  to  see ;  but  in 
all  its  crowded  area  there  was  nothing  left  that  the 
doctor  cared  for  now,  outside  his  daughter's  dwelling. 
And  his  country  patients  would  be  waiting  for  him  at 
home.  So,  at  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning,  in  a 
drizzling,  soaking,  sulky  rain,  he  bestowed  himself  and 
his  portmanteau  again  in  the  northward  train,  and  was 
steamed  away;  touching  and  pausing,  now  and  then, 
on  outskirts  of  the  towns  that,  twenty  years  ago,  were 
quiet  villages,  through  which  the  old  road  lay,  along 
whose  windings  he  had  used  to  drive  when  he  made  his 
infrequent  journeys  southward. 

He  gave  his  ticket  silently  to-day  when  the  con 
ductor  came  his  round.  I  doubt  if  the  official  knew 
him  for  the  same  man  who  had  asked  him  yesterday 
about  the  way  of  the  wind,  with  the  eager  look  of  a 
boy  questioning  his  elders  of  the  probabilities  of  wea 
ther,  upon  which  some  rare  hope  or  pleasure  hangs 
contingent.  He  felt  dull  to-day,  —  the  good  old 
doctor,  —  languid  in  body  and  dispirited  in  soul.  The 
miles  were  long  to  him.  He  was  not  hungry  when  he 
came  to  Baxter's  Mills.  He  took  a  cup  of  tea,  and  a 
morsel '  of  some  food  that  lay  nearest,  and  sat  waiting 


A  SEARCH;  AND  ODYLIC  FORCE.          179 

in  his  place  in  the  coach,  when  the  other  passengers, 
after  their  more  prolonged  refreshment,  came  clam 
bering  in. 

All  the  rest  of  the  day  the  slow,  ponderous  vehicle 
went  tilting  and  lumbering  and  creaking  on,  up  into 
the  hill-country;  and  the  persistent  spring  rain  came 
down;  and  everything  dripped  outside  and  steamed 
within,  and  smelt  of  wet  leather  and  damp  overcoats ; 
and  at  seven  o'clock  a  chance  wagon,  hired  at  the 
Bridge,  set  down  at  the  Gayworthy  farmhouse  a  pale, 
chilled,  exhausted  old  gentleman,  with  nothing  to  tell 
his  surprised  "women  folks  "  but  that  they  might  get 
him  some  hot  tea  and  put  him  to  bed;  for  that  he  'd 
had  the  life  pretty  well  jolted  and  drenched  out  of 
him ;  and  the  boy  was  gone,  after  all. 

Two  days  after,  they  sent  to  Winthorpe  for  a  brother 
physician ;  and  a  letter  went  down  again  to  Selport,  on 
Monday,  from  Joanna  to  Jane:  "Father  had  taken  a 
violent  cold,  and  was  threatened  with  a  congestion  of 
the  lungs." 

Dutiful  Jane  packed  a  trunk,  took  Say  with  her, 
and  came  up  to  Hilbury  by  the  Tuesday's  stage. 

I  have  no  desire  to  lead  you  through  a  whole  chapter 
of  suspense,  for  the  mere  sake  of  it.  Dr.  Gayworthy, 
though  very  ill,  did  not  die.  At  the  end  of  a  week, 
Mrs.  Gair  and  Say  went  back  to  Selport,  leaving  him, 
as  the  country  saying  is,  "on  the  mending  hand." 
Mrs.  Gair  felt  no  wish  to  prolong  her  stay;  it  was  too 
early  for  her  regular  yearly  visit,  and'  there  was  all  her 
own  and  Say's  summer  sewing  to  be  done;  besides, 
apart  from  the  anxiety  and  dullness  of  a  sick-house,  it 
had  not  been  altogether  an  agreeable  sojourn  for  her, 
this  time,  at  home.  Prue  had  asked  her,  plainly  and 
straightforwardly,  if  Gershom  had  gone  before  her 
letter  came,  and  whether  she  had  told  him  of  its  con 
tents.  Jane  Gair  never  told  a  lie.  She  had  learned 


180  THE  GAY  WORTHY S. 

all  about  Ananias  and  Sapphira;  and  the  fire  and 
brimstone;  and  George  Washington  and  his  hatchet; 
and  "  Has  my  darling  told  a  lie  ?  "  and  all  the  rest 
that  well-taught  children  knew  in  her  day,  long  before 
she  was  as  old  as  Say.  She  had  read  Mrs.  Opie  af 
terwards,  in  whose  stories  every  variety  of  liars  got 
surely  caught  and  appropriately  punished ;  and  though 
she  could  live  as  false  a  life,  in  her  small,  protected 
way,  as  ever  a  woman  did  live,  —  though  there  was 
not  a  day  of  it  all,  perhaps,  when  she  did  not  pains 
takingly  put  forth  some  other  motive  than  the  real  one 
for  her  doing,  —  she  shrank,  with  an  in-drilled  in 
stinct  of  safety  and  decency,  from  deliberate,  palpable 
falsification  in  word. 

"Why,  no,"  she  said.  "I  thought  if  you  yourself 
had  known  just  how  it  was,  you  would  not  have  writ 
ten  so.  His  shipping  papers  were  signed;  and  the 
whole  thing  was  settled;  and  the  Pearl  was  to  sail  the 
next  morning.  I  knew  you  did  not  mean  for  him  to 
give  up  the  voyage;  and  it  was  no  use  making  him 
unhappy. " 

"I  meant  exactly  what  I  said.  I  always  do,"  said 
Prue  shortly ;  and  there  she  dropped  the  subject ;  and 
while  Jane  remained,  she  spoke  no  further  word  to  her 
of  Gershom.  The  mother  knew  she  had  been  tricked 
of  her  boy.  She  knew  that  Jane  knew  she  never  in 
tended  to  consent  to  such  a  departure;  that  it  was 
with  a  sudden  thought  of  its  possibility  that  she  had 
finished  her  letter  late  that  Monday  afternoon,  and 
walked  over  to  Jaazaniah  Hoogs's  with  it,  that  he 
might  post  it  for  her  in  Winthorpe  the  next  mornirr; 
before  the  mail  went  down.  This  knowledge  lay  be 
tween  them,  and  it  was  enough.  Mrs.  Gair  felt  far 
from  comfortable,  even  when  that  immediate  danger 
to  the  doctor  was  over,  and  she  could  say  to  herself 
that  "no  great  harm  had  come  of  it,  after  all." 


A  SEARCH;  AND  ODYLIC  FORCE.          181 

Come  of  what  ?  What  had  her  conscience  been  afraid 
of,  after  all? 

The  doctor  got  well.  That  is,  he  did  not  die. 
But  it  was  the  first  break  in  his  fine  old  constitution. 
After  this,  "he  must  be  careful;"  a  new  text  for 
the  hearty,  self -forgetful  farmer-physician.  A  lung- 
attack,  at  any  time  of  life,  —  certainly  when  the 
threescore  years  and  ten  are  passed,  —  can  hardly  leave 
a  man  exactly  where  it  found  him.  And  as  Prue  had 
said,  he  had  "been  a  little  slim,  before."  He  did  not 
stouten  much  as  summer  came  on.  The  haying  was 
hard  for  him;  he  missed  Gershom  in  that,  and  in 
everything;  he  came  home  from  his  round  of  visits, 
in  the  sultry  weather,  languid,  and  exhausted,  and 
silent ;  and  when  Jane  came  up  again  in  August,  — 
making  her  visit  at  a  later  season  than  usual,  because 
of  having  been  there  in  the  spring,  and  also  that  Say 
might  be  in  Hilbury  in  huckleberry  time,  —  she  saw 
that  her  father  had  changed ;  had  aged ;  that  he  be 
gan  to  look  a  little  broken.  But  it  was  now  three 
months  since  the  Pearl  had  sailed,  and  he  made  that 
unlucky  journey,  and  fell  ill  after  it.  She  did  not 
choose  to  connect  this  with  the  other ;  or  to  see  that 
circumstances  had  moved  on  to  this  result,  through 
any  remote  "pushing"  of  her  own.  She  "couldn't 
help  feeling  anxious  about  father,"  she  said  to  her 
sisters.  But  she  had,  at  the  same  time,  another  little 
secret  anxiety,  which  she  said  nothing  about.  It  oc 
curred  to  her,  now  and  then,  to  wonder  if  certain  mat 
ters  remained  just  as  they  had  been  on  that  night  in 
June,  more  than  three  years  ago. 

It  happened  strangely  that  she  was  put  one  day  in 
the  direct  way  of  finding  out. 

Joanna  and  Rebecca  had  gone  from  home,  to  a  sew 
ing  society,  taking  Say  with  them.  Prue  had  with 
drawn  to  her  own  room,  where  she  was  safe,  accord- 


182  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

ing  to  precedent,  for  an  hour  to  come.  The  doctor 
had  been  summoned,  just  before  dinner,  to  a  patient 
four  miles  off,  and  had  taken  a  hasty  meal  and  de 
parted.  Mrs.  Gair,  having  no  new  dress  to  put  on 
to-day  that  the  Hilbury  ladies  had  not  seen,  found 
herself  unequal  to  the  fatigue  of  a  toilet  and  a  half- 
mile  walk.  So  she  sat  with  a  book,  — very  light 
summer  reading,  —  just  inside  the  open  front  door, 
enjoying  the  cool  breeze  that  swept  up  under  the 
maples. 

A  barefooted  boy,  on  a  bare-back  horse,  rode  sud 
denly  over  the  turf  slope  before  the  white  gate,  and 
with  a  touch  of  his  dusty  toes  to  the  top  rail,  made  a 
single  spring  from  the  beast's  back  to  the  grass  within 
the  fence,  and  walked  quickly  up  toward  the  door- 
stone. 

"The  doctor  sent  this,  and  this,"  said  he  to  Mrs. 
Gair,  "and  wants  what  he  's  written  for." 

"The  leathern  case  at  the  right  hand,  in  the  mid 
dle  drawer  of  my  study  table."  This  was  one  "this;  " 
the  other  was  a  bunch  of  keys. 

Mrs.  Gair  rose  quietly  and,  entering  her  father's 
little  room,  procured  the  case,  and  came  back  with  it 
to  the  messenger.  The  keys  she  put  in  her  pocket. 
"That  is  all,"  she  said.  "You  may  go." 

The  boy  departed;  over  the  fence,  and  upon  the 
uncaparisoned  steed,  as  he  had  come;  sticking  his 
heels  into  the  creature's  rough  sides,  and  larruping  its 
neck  with  the  bridle-end,  till  it  broke  into  a  wild 
canter. 

Mrs.  Gair  sat  still  a  few  minutes  after  he  had  gone. 
She  had  first  dropped  the  keys  into  her  pocket,  with 
only  the  thought  of  holding  them  safe;  joined,  per 
haps,  with  an  indefinite  feeling  that  leads  people  of 
a  certain  temperament  to  cling  instinctively  to  2)osses- 
sion ;  even  of  what  can  be  only  temporarily  and  use- 


A  SEARCH;  AND  ODYLIC  FORCE.          183 

lessly  in  their  keeping.  But  presently,  something 
darted  across  her  mind. 

Among  these,  was  the  key  to  the  panel- cupboard. 

Prue  was  upstairs,  asleep.  She  was  alone,  in  all 
this  part  of  the  house.  She  should  never  have  a  bet 
ter —  perhaps  another  —  chance. 

Mrs.  Gair  sat  reading  on  down  the  page,  compre 
hending  never  a  word.  Thinking,  while  the  type  lay 
in  meaningless  lines  before  her  eyes,  whether  she 
should  do  this  thing  or  not.  When  she  came  to  the 
bottom  of  the  leaf,  she  laid  down  the  book.  All  still 
and  solitary,  through  the  house,  and  away  out  down 
the  fields.  Nothing  to  interrupt.  Why  should  she 
not  look  into  the  old  cupboard  once  more,  and  among 
its  relics  of  time  past?  She  bethought  herself  that 
the  odd  volume  of  "Cecilia,"  which  she  could  not  find 
about  the  house,  might  have  got  laid  away  there. 
There  were  old  books,  or  used  to  be,  upon  its  upper 
shelf.  Mrs.  Gair's  was  a  mind  that  could  not  be  sin 
gle-motived,  even  to  itself.  For  such,  the  devil  is 
always  ready  with  his  double  reasons. 

The  panel  door  slid  back  with  its  old  rumble ;  the 
earthquake  that  Say  had  heard  before;  softened  by 
the  care  with  which  Jane  handled  it,  but  still  suffi 
ciently  audible,  or  sensible,  perhaps,  in  the  silent, 
echoing  house,  and  along  the  old  timbers  attuned  to 
every  long-accustomed  thrill.  Jane  must  be  quick. 
Prue  might  notice,  and  come  down.  At  this  moment, 
the  odd  volume  of  "Cecilia"  was  not  thought  of. 
The  faded  letter-case  lay  there ;  back,  upon  the  second 
shelf,  with  a  worn  leather  wallet,  and  bundles  of  yel 
low,  dusty  papers,  ancient,  and  mostly  useless.  Jane 
held  it  in  her  hand,  and  listened.  No  sound.  She 
untied  the  green  ribbon,  and  opened  the  case.  There 
were  two  pockets.  The  upper  and  principal  one,  am 
ple  with  inlet  and  once  curiously  folded  gores,  stretched 


184  THE  GAY  WORTHY S. 

and  bulged,  now,  with  long  use,  still  holding  abundant 
contents.  The  other,  a  simple  doubling,  laid  flat 
within  the  cover;  protruding  from  which  she  saw  the 
edges  of  a  paper  somewhat  fresher  than  the  rest.  Not 
what  she  sought  for.  She  remembered  that  well.  It 
had  been  only  a  half -sheet,  twice  folded.  This  pre 
sented  multiplied  thicknesses.  She  drew  it  out  to 
look  behind.  This  was  what  her  father  had  held  in 
his  hand,  that  night,  and  replaced  with  the  one  newly 
written.  She  turned  it  over.  It  was  superscribed 
and  dated.  Ten  years  back.  "My  last  Will  and 
Testament." 

There  was  no  time  to  unfold  it.  She  heard  a  slight 
movement,  somewhere,  above.  Was  this  the  last? 
Ten  years  ago  was  before  Prue  and  her  great  boy  had 
come  home  here.  She  put  her  fingers  in  the  narrow 
pocket  where  it  had  been.  Nothing  there;  where  she 
had  surely  seen  her  father  slip  the  second  writing,  be 
hind  the  other.  Something  crackled  a  little  under 
her  touch,  though,  as  she  felt  along.  As  a  new,  stiff 
lining  might  have  done ;  only  this  was  an  old  thing, 
that  had  done  crackling,  long  ago.  In  the  back,  just 
above  this  lesser  pocket,  was  a  slit,  worn  in  the  bro 
cade  that  had  faced  it  once  so  richly.  Something  had 
got  in,  or  been  hidden,  here.  She  put  the  tips  of  her 
fingers  under,  carefully. 

Suddenly  she  cared  not  to  investigate  further.  She 
chose  to  tell  herself  that  she  knew  nothing.  And  that 
it  was  best  she  should  know  nothing.  And  yet  she 
did  know,  just  as  well  as  you  and  I  do,  what  it  must 
be  that  lay  there,  and  how  with  the  dim  candle-light, 
and  her  father's  old  eyes,  it  must  have  happened. 
But  she  would  not  look.  Was  it  odylic  force,  or  a 
voluntary  pressure  of  the  finger-tip,  that  "pushed  a 
little "  upon  what  lay  within,  and  crowded  it  down 
yet  further,  beyond  discovery?  Prue's  step  was  dis- 


A  SEARCH;  AND  ODYLIC  FORCE.  185 

tinct,  upstairs,  now.     The  folded  paper  was  put  back, 

—  the  pocket  needfully  smoothed  down,  pressed  close, 

—  the  ribbon  retied;   and  when  Prue  came  in,  a  min 
ute  after,    all  in  the   lower  portion   of   the   cupboard 
looked  undisturbed,  and  Jane  was  standing  on  the  high 
round  of  the  heavy  old  mahogany  chair  by  which  she 
had  climbed,  and  was  industriously  rummaging  among 
the  shiny-covered  leather-bound  books  and  musty  papers 
on  the  topmost  shelf.      She  heard  Prue  coming  well 
enough;  but  she  never  turned.      She  was  in  no  hurry. 
Why  should  she  startle,  or  be  afraid  ?     She  would  just 
as  soon  Prue  saw  her  there  as  not.      And  here,  good 
fortune  that  it  was,  quite  justifying  her  procedure,  — 
under  her  hand  lay  the  very  thing  she  had  come  to  look 
for  !     The  second  volume  of  "  Cecilia, "  that  had  been 
gone  from  the  upstairs  bookcase  so  long.      Prue  en 
tered  just  in  time  to  hear  her  exclaim  with  delight. 

"  How  came  you  there,  Jane  ?  And  where  did  you 
get  father's  keys?  " 

"He  sent  them  home  just  now,  for  something  that 
he  needed  from  the  table-drawer.  And  it  came  into 
my  head  to  look  here  for  this  volume  that  I  wanted  so. 
I  'm  so  pleased !  I  have  n't  read  'Cecilia  '  since  I  was 
fifteen." 

It  was  said  with  all  the  simplicity  of  fifteen.  But 
when  Jane  was  so  very  simple,  good  Prue,  with  all  her 
own  honesty,  that  had  used  to  make  her  blind,  had 
come  of  late  to  feel,  vaguely,  that  there  might  be  some 
thing  unspoken.  She  reproached  herself  for  this,  and 
thought  of  the  first  verse  of  the  seventh  chapter  of 
Matthew;  yet  the  sensation  would  come. 

"I  don't  think  he  likes  those  places  meddled  with. 
I  never  go  there." 

"Oh,  I  dare  say  you  're  scrupulous.  But  with  me, 
it  's  rather  different." 

Jane  never  failed  to  imply  her  rights,  when  occasion 
offered,  as  born  daughter  of  the  house. 


186  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

Prue  did  not  reply.  They  heard  Priscilla,  Hul- 
dah's  cousin  and  successor,  moving  about  in  the  great 
kitchen  to  which  the  door  stood  open.  Prue  went  out. 

Jane  rolled  the  panel  to  its  place  again,  turned  the 
key,  dropped  the  bunch  into  the  table-drawer,  and 
went  off  with  her  old  book,  humming  a  tune. 

A  few  minutes  later,  Priscilla  came  in  softly,  with 
round  eyes,  and  looked  wonderingly  about.  She  had 
heard,  in  her  turn,  the  earthquake,  and  the  little  talk, 
also,  between  the  step-sisters.  These  things  impressed 
themselves  upon  her  young  mind,  not  over-occupied  as 
yet  with  the  urgencies  of  life,  as  those  things  do  to 
which  future  impressions  are  to  come  and  mate  them 
selves. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

INTO    PORT. 

GEKSHOM  VORSE  was  standing  his  last  night-watch 
at  sea,  upon  the  Pearl's  homeward  voyage.  We  left 
him  upon  his  first.  He  has  seen  since  then  what  a 
sailor's  life  is.  He  has  found  out  a  good  deal  of  those 
eleven  men  who  have  been  his  shipmates;  who  dis 
gusted  him  so  at  the  outset,  when  they  came  reeling 
and  rollicking  on  board,  on  the  fair  May  morning  when 
they  sailed  out  of  Selport.  He  has  been  half  round 
the  world  with  them,  and  back  again.  He  has  laid 
out  with  them  on  the  yards,  in  stormy  nights,  reefing 
and  furling  sail.  He  has  heard  a  prayer,  or  what  was 
born  a  prayer,  once,  but  has  coarsened  on  rough  lips 
and  with  irreverent  usage  to  something  little  better, 
seemingly,  —  God  knows,  —  than  an  ordinary  oath, 
uttered  in  one  breath,  when  they  "tumbled  up,"  at 
the  midnight  call,  to  face  flood  and  fury;  and  down 
right  cursing  in  the  next,  as  they  struggled  at  their 
task  aloft,  clinging  for  dear  life  to  the  swaying  foot- 
rope,  "fisting  "  the  wet  and  bellying  canvas.  He  has 
sat  on  the  sunny  forecastle  deck  in  pleasant  weather, 
learning  to  make  duck  trousers  and  listening  to  long 
yarns.  He  has  looked,  so,  into  strange  lives.  There 
had  been  "all  sorts"  on  board  the  Pearl.  There  are 
apt  to  be  in  a  crew  of  a  dozen  men.  There  was  the 
Italian,  Joe,  who  always  crossed  himself  before  he 
went  aloft  in  a  gale,  and  swore  hardest  when  he  got 
there ;  who  used  to  say  in  his  broken  English,  wagging 
his  head  at  his  jolly  companions,  —  jolly  so  often  at 
his  expense :  — 


188  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

*'Ah!  you  laugh  now!  Verawell!  You  laugh  at 
me  talk  bad  English,  an'  pray  to  Virgin  Mary,  an' 
San  Peter.  Vat  you  do  ven  you  go  up  dere,  aloft 
one  day,  by  'm  by?  San  Peter,  he  '11  sit  at  de  gate, 
wid  de  keys  in  he  hand.  He  look  over,  an'  see  you 
comin',  and  he  no  let  you  in.  He  say,  'Vast,  dere! 
Go  below !  Vat  you  do  here,  you  'a-retic  ?  '  Den 
by  'm  by,  you  see  Joe  come  along.  An'  San  Peter, 
he  look  over  de  gate,  an'  he  say:  'Ah,  dat  you,  Joe? 
Glad  to  see  you.  How  you  do,  Joe  ?  Valk  in,  ship 
mate  !  Vat  you  take  to  drink  ?  '  " 

There  was  Jerry,  also,  from  the  Vineyard.  He  had 
another  sort  of  religion,  picked  up  at  a  camp-meeting; 
let  drop,  his  comrades  used  to  say,  by  some  better  fel 
low.  Sneaking  Jerry,  they  called  him.  He  sneaked, 
and  shirked,  and  sniveled;  and  the  old  salts  despised 
him,  and  "damned  his  eyes,"  as  they  did  "old  horse." 

This  was  all  the  religion  they  had,  to  speak  of,  in 
the  forecastle  of  the  Pearl.  What  had  they,  then? 
Well,  there  was  sailor's  fortitude,  sailor's  courage, 
sailor's  patience,  a  rough  sort  of  magnanimity,  a  spirit 
of  share  and  share  alike ;  one  scorning  to  be  better  off 
than  another,  even  in  the  matter  of  lobscouse  and  salt 
junk;  there  was  coarse  wit,  shrewd  invention;  there 
was  the  strange  bond  of  fellowship  between  men  who, 
making  a  little  world  with  each  other  now,  might  in 
a  few  months  scatter  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  never 
beholding  each  others'  faces  again;  or  who  might,  with 
a  moment's  warning,  go  down  together  to  a  common 
death. 

Here  among  these,  for  eight  months,  Gershom  had 
lived.  They  had  had  a  voyage  of  ordinary  length  and 
ordinary  incident.  There  had  been  nothing  high- 
heroic  ;  only  the  heroism  of  everyday  endurance  and 
exposure ;  and  the  glamour  was  a  little  gone.  The  sec 
ond  mate  was  a  vulgar  fellow,  the  chief  officer  a  marti- 


IJVTO  POET.  189 

net ;  the  captain  was  Captain  Burley  still,  a  noble  man 
upon  the  quarter-deck;  but  between  the  quarter-deck 
and  the  forecastle  there  was  an  infinite  and  impassable 
distance.  Captain  Burley  and  Gershom  Vorse  would 
be  taking  tea  together  soon,  perhaps,  at  Uncle  Reu 
ben's  table,  talking  over  sea  life,  telling  and  listening 
again  to  sea  stories ;  but  for  eight  months  one  had  been 
served  his  solitary  meals  in  state,  by  the  steward  in 
the  cabin,  and  the  other  had  fetched  his  kid  from  the 
galley;  and  words  had  been  rare  between  them,  beyond 
what  the  vessel's  service  required. 

Gershom  had  seen  the  great  sea,  and  the  far,  beau 
tiful  islands ;  he  had  been  among  the  palms  and  orange 
groves ;  he  had  beheld  unrolled  a  corner  of  the  grand, 
glowing  panorama  of  the  earth  ;  he  longed  still  for 
more ;  yet  it  had  not  all  been  a  vision  of  grandeur  and 
beauty,  a  sublimity  of  scene  and  act.  He  was  eager 
now  for  his  home  again ;  for  a  breath  of  the  New  Eng 
land  hills ;  eager,  as  if  he  had  never  fancied  himself 
weary  of  them ;  never  felt  that  they  hemmed  him  round 
and  held  him  in. 

It  was  a  bright,  mild,  January  night;  the  stars 
were  out  clear,  and  the  wind  fair;  sails  set,  I  shall 
not  tell  you  what,  nor  how,  for  I  have  small  knowledge 
of  technical  seamanship,  but  all  safe,  and  as  it  should 
be ;  the  man  at  the  wheel  steering  his  steady  course 
north-northwest,  and  the  watch  smoking  and  singing 
and  skylarking  on  the  forecastle,  keeping  themselves 
warm  with  antics  and  jokes.  Gershom  walked  the 
deck,  up  and  down,  apart,  in  the  waist.  He  had  little 
in  common  with  the  rest  of  the  crew,  to-night,  save 
the  common  joy  of  nearing  port.  He  knew  nothing  of 
their  haunts,  nothing  of  their  shore  life  here  in  the 
city,  though  he  could  guess  somewhat  of  it  from  their 
yarns  and  chaff.  So  soon  as  he  should  step  from  the 
deck  of  the  Pearl,  he  would  be  the  "boy  of  the  hills  " 


190  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

once  more,  as  thoroughly  as  if  he  had  never  seen  salt 
water.  He  was  thinking  of  the  Hilbury  stage,  and 
hoping  the  brig  might  get  in  before  to-morrow  night, 
that  the  next  day  might  find  him  on  his  journey  to  the 
farm. 

Ned  Blackmere  —  English  Ned  —  stood  apart  also, 
leaning  on  the  rail,  looking  gloomily  over  upon  the 
water.  English  Ned  was  never  jolly  coming  into  port. 
But  then,  when  was  he  jolly  ?  There  was  a  fierce  kind 
of  spirit  that  waked  up  in  him  when  they  sailed  away 
out  of  sight  of  land,  as  if  he  had  escaped  something; 
and  he  flung  himself  into  his  seaman's  duty  as  if  his  life 
lay  there ;  but  he  was  never  cheery  and  light-hearted. 
His  gloom  and  reserve,  strange  always  for  a  sailor, 
took  on  a  heavier  cloud,  like  the  fog  of  the  soundings, 
on  approaching  the  homeward  end  of  a  voyage.  He 
had  sailed  with  the  Pearl  for  six  years  past.  They 
called  him  Old  Barnacle,  for  sticking  to  her  so.  He 
loved  the  brig,  I  think,  though  he  believed  that  he 
loved  nothing.  Gershom  had  never  heard  this  man 
spin  a  yarn  since  they  came  on  board  together.  No 
body  knew  much  about  him.  He  was  a  fearless,  skill 
ful  seaman ;  a  sure  hand  at  the  helm,  or  at  an  earing, 
in  bad  weather;  but  a  moody  messmate,  caring  for 
nothing  but  his  pipe,  from  which  he  was  nearly  insep 
arable. 

Gershom  came  close  up  to  him,  in  his  pacing  to  and 
fro,  each  time  he  turned  forward.  There  was  a  spring 
in  the  boy's  step,  and  a  flinging  up  of  the  head,  that 
had  gone  out  of  the  man's  bearing  forever. 

"Ye 're  walking  it  off  well  to-night,  youngster," 
said  Old  Barnacle,  turning  suddenly,  and  clenching  his 
pipe  with  his  teeth.  "Seems  to  help  the  brig  along, 
don't  it?" 

"Well,  I'm  restless,"  replied  Gershom,  pausing  at 
the  end  of  his  beat.  "She  's  going  a  good  streak, 


INTO  POET7.  191 

ain't  she  ?      We  '11  be  in  by  to-morrow  night,    they 
say." 

"You've  something  to  be  glad  of,  then?  What 
have  you  got  to  go  to  when  ye  're  in  ?  " 

He  would  not  have  asked  this  of  those  older  men, 
who  talked  of  sweethearts  and  wives,  or  laid  their 
plans  for  a  sailor's  holiday  time,  with  full  pockets  and 
a  gay  city  to  empty  them  in,  —  he  knew,  or  thought 
he  knew,  what  all  that  was  worth ;  and  he  turned  away 
bitterly  from  the  merry  forecastle  group  to  the  black 
water  swashing  by  the  sides,  and  to  his  solitary  pipe; 
but  he  asked  it  of  this  boy,  who  had  turned  away  also, 
—  asked  it  with  something  between  wonder  and  a 
sneer. 

"I've  got  home!"  cried  the  young  sailor,  with  a 
warm  outburst.  He  was  so  glad  to  have  it  to  say  out. 
He  had  been  wanting  to  sing  it,  to  shout  it ;  but  he 
could  not  say  it  to  those  men.  "I  've  got  my  mother 
and  my  grandfather,  up  in  the  country,  among  the  hills. 
And,  before  that,  I've  got  friends  in  Selport;  Uncle 
Reuben,  —  that  is,  Mr.  Gair,  you  know,  —  and  my 
little  cousin  Say.  Where  are  you  going  to,  Ned  ?  " 

He  had  been  beguiled,  suddenly,  from  the  off-hand 
roughness  learned  at  sea,  that  disguises  everything  with 
an  indifference  or  turns  it  off  with  a  joke,  to  the  simple 
sentiment  of  a  child.  The  child- side  of  his  nature  was 
uppermost  just  now ;  and  true  to  its  impulse,  he  told 
all  this  to  Old  Barnacle,  as  a  six-years'  urchin  tells 
all  he  has  to  tell  upon  the  slightest  questioning ;  and 
wound  up  by  asking,  — what  nobody  else  on  board 
would  have  dared  to  ask  Ned  Blackmere,  —  "Where 
are  you  going  to,  Ned  ?  " 

"To  hell!  If  you  must  know."  It  was  as  true  a 
speech  out  of  the  man's  secret  heart  as  the  boy's  con 
fidence  had  been.  They  had  called  each  other  out 
alike. 


192  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

"Stop!  you  needn't  go.  Since  we've  begun,  we 
may  as  well  talk  on  a  bit." 

He  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  saying  this,  and 
stood  with  his  arms  resting  on  the  bulwark,  and  his 
head  bent,  the  pipe  held  carelessly  in  his  fingers,  and 
his  hand  hanging  idly  down. 

"You  've  got  a  home,  you  say;  I  suppose  you  think 
so.  You  '11  find  out  some  time  that  there  is  n't  any 
such  thing.  There  's  places  where  people  stay  together 
awhile;  but  it  's  for  what  they  can  get  of  each  other, 
and  because  they  can't  help  themselves.  All  at  once 
something  turns  up,  and  sets  'em  adrift,  and  what  be 
comes  of  your  home  then?  I  've  seen  it;  I  've  seen 
'em  go  to  pieces  like  a  ship  on  a  rock,  —  no  two  tim 
bers  held  together.  You've  got  a  mother?  Well, 
that's  something,  as  long  as  it  lasts;  but  the  real 
ones  mostly  die.  I  can  just  remember  somebody  that 
used  to  cuddle  me  up,  and  tuck  me  in  bed,  and  tell 
me  prayers  to  say;  but  after  that  I  don't  remember 
anything  but  kicks  and  cuffs,  and  drink  and  misery. 
Then  my  father  died;  and  my  father's  brother  cheated 
us  out  of  what  living  there  was  left ;  and  my  own 
brother  cheated  me  out  of  what  was  more  than  living 
to  me,  or  I  was  fool  enough  to  think  so ;  and  my  sister 
made  a  disgrace  of  herself,  and  broke  the  heart  of  an 
honest  fellow  as  was  my  friend ;  and  I  went  knocking 
jJoout  the  world,  and  it  's  all  made  up  of  just  the  same 
stuff.  I  've  been  all  over  it,  and  God  ain't  anywhere 
in  it.  If  He  was,  He  would  n't  let  things  be  as  I  have 
seen  'em.  I  set  out  once  to  plant  a  home  of  my  own, 
and  see  if  't  would  grow ;  but  I  married  a  she-devil, 
and  I  tell  you  we  made  hell !  My  child  never  had  a 
mother;  it's  dead,  and  if  God  was  anywhere  round, 
I  'd  thank  Him  for  it.  She  overlaid  it  in  the  night; 
she  said  she  did.  I  knew  she  got  tired  of  it ;  and  it 
made  her  mad  wi'  crying,  —  that  and  the  gin.  She 


INTO  PORT.  193 

didn't  get  stupid  \vi'  't,  only  devilish;  and  the  child 
lay  smothered  in  the  bed  one  morning.  That 's  where 
my  home  went  to ;  but  I  go  back  there  yet,  and  halve 
my  wages  with  her,  when  the  brig's  in;  and  I'm 
precious  jolly  when  we  come  in  sight  o'  land,  don't 
you  see  ?  "  And  his  white  teeth  glistened  through  the 
darkness  as  he  set  them  tight,  and  his  lips  drew  up 
from  them  in  a  horrible  scorn.  He  barely  relaxed 
their  clench,  and  thrust  his  pipe  between  them  again, 
and  so  held  it  fast. 

"If  I  'd  gone  my  own  way  from  the  beginning  and 
never  believed  in  nobody,  I  'd  ha*  done."  These 
words  forced  themselves,  as  it  were,  from  locked  jaws. 
"It's  all  come  o'  trusting  and  expecting;  and  the 
women  's  the  worst.  They  '11  hold  you  up  the  most 
wi'  trusting;  and  they  '11  let  you  down  the  hardest,  — 
except  the  real  mothers,  and  they  don't  last.  If 
you  've  got  a  mother,  boy,  hold  on  to  her ;  but  take 
care  o'  your  bones,  and  keep  clear  o'  the  rest !  " 

Eight  bells  were  struck  as  Old  Barnacle  ended  speak 
ing;  the  larboard  watch  was  called;  and  Gershom 
with  his  watchmates  presently  went  below;  but  this 
epitomized  story  of  a  dark  life,  that  he  had  heard, 
went  with  him  and  haunted  him.  He  could  not  forget 
Blackmere's  look.  He  could  not  forget  what  he  had 
said,  —  "I  've  been  all  round  the  world,  and  God  ain't 
anywhere  in  it."  Should  he,  now  that  he  had  once 
come  out  from  the  safety  of  the  hills,  ever  reach  a 
desolation  like  this  ?  Was  this  what  must  surely  come 
of  trusting  and  expecting?  Was  the  great  world, 
outside  the  shelter  and  the  faith  of  his  childhood, 
made  up,  even  mostly,  of  stuff  like  this? 

An  unwholesome  or  unhappy  life  may  touch  our  own, 
and  pass  us  by  harmless,  as  disease  may  do  our  bodies, 
except  for  a  predisposition  which  it  mysteriously  finds, 
and  seizes  upon.  We  gather  to  ourselves  nothing  that 


194  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

we  have  not  already  some  faint  unnoticed  symptom  of. 
A  sudden  distrust,  that  had  passed  over  him  long  ago, 
—  that,  since,  he  had  hardly  remembered  or  dwelt 
upon,  —  a  doubt  of  one  who  should  have  been  his 
friend,  —  recalled  itself  to  Gershom  in  a  vague  way 
now;  a  feeling  that  he  had  also  once  known  gave  a 
holding  point  to  this  terrible  history  of  a  disappointed, 
utterly  distrustful  human  soul,  and  grafted  it,  strange 
and  fearful  as  it  was,  to  the  boy's  own  life.  His  own 
little  experience  of  an  ill  in  human  nature  added  to 
itself  this  blacker  knowledge ;  and  the  one  verified  the 
other.  There  was  a  glimmer  whereby  he  could  dimly 
comprehend  this  thing  whereof  he  should  have  had  no 
comprehension  yet.  It  should  have  been  a  mere  mar 
vel  to  him ;  but  it  seized  strong  hold  of  him,  and  he 
could  not  shake  it  off. 

It  was  a  putting  of  two  and  two  together,  with  Ger 
shom  Vorse,  toward  the  acquiring  of  that  bitter  science 
men  call  knowledge  of  the  world. 

The  lessons  had  begun  longer  ago  than  he  reviewed 
them  now ;  in  the  old  childish  days,  with  his  percep 
tions  of  the  shams  of  life ;  when  Aunt  Jane,  with  her 
fine  city  airs  and  fashions,  had  used  to  come  to  Hil- 
bury ;  when  she  and  her  friends  and  neighbors  met  with 
such  a  seeming  of  simple,  eager  gladness,  underneath 
which  was  yet  the  seething  of  vainglory  on  the  one 
side,  and  jealousy  on  the  other;  when  there  were  all 
sorts  of  quibbles  and  devices  to  get  rid  of  lending  Sel- 
port  patterns,  and  painstaking  contrivances  to  imitate 
them  surreptitiously ;  triumphant  displays  and  wrath 
ful  recognitions,  disguised  with  airs  of  innocent  sim 
plicity  and  bland  acquiescence ;  when  people  who  Ger 
shom  believed  had  it  in  them  to  behave  like  pigs, 
minced  little  bits,  and  said,  "No,  I  thank  you,"  to 
be  thought  polite;  all  this,  as  he  saw  or  fancied  he 
saw  it  then,  had  laid  itself  away  within  him,  an  early 


INTO  PORT.  195 

disgust,  to  color  many  an  after  estimate  of  life  and  the 
things  thereof. 

Gershom  Vorse,  with  his  uncompromising  sense  of 
honesty,  drawn  with  mother's  milk  and  incorporated 
with  the  strong,  unyielding  man-nature  that  was  in 
him,  was  likely,  unless  something  more  divine  and 
gracious  should  mingle  and  attune  with  it,  to  make  a 
long  quarrel  of  it  with  the  world. 

The  world!  Every  soul  of  us  knows  a  separate 
one.  Over  into  each  other's  worlds,  in  a  way,  we 
may  look ;  and  our  own  may  borrow  from  what  lies 
about  the  borders  of  those  that  touch  upon  it ;  but 
scarcely  any  two,  however  dear,  inhabit  literally  one 
domain,  —  have  one  identical  range  and  region. 

What  sort  of  world  was  little  Sarah  Gair  feeling  out 
into,  with  childish  hands;  glancing  into,  with  eager, 
often  puzzled  eyes  ? 

It  opened  differently  to  her  than  it  did  to  Gershom ; 
things  that  he  was  learning  were  as  unknown  to  her  as 
any  concerns  of  another  planet;  things  were  forcing 
themselves  upon  her,  as  real  facts  of  life,  that  to  him 
would  be  nothings.  Compared  with  better  and  stronger 
things,  they  were  as  nothings,  doubtless ;  yet  they 
made  up  a  certain  sort  of  world  for  a  certain  sort  of 
people,  among  whom  Say  was  born  and  placed.  They 
were  the  shape  life  took,  just  now  at  least,  for  her ; 
she  had  a  mother  not  too  wise ;  and  she  was  as  yet 
only  a  little  maiden  of  eleven  years  old. 

Sarah  Gair  came  home  from  dancing-school,  in  the 
January  dusk,  at  the  very  hour  when  the  Pearl  came 
sailing  up  the  harbor.  She  had  had  her  hair  tied  up 
in  a  new  way,  with  rose-colored  ribbons ;  and  this  was 
the  first  day  of  wearing  a  bright  brown  silk  frock  with 
puffed  sleeves  and  lace  edgings,  that  Winny  when  she 
fastened  it  for  her  had  declared  to  be  "the  rale  stylish 
thing,  intirely."  Yet  somehow  she  had  n't  felt  so 


196  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

fine,  after  all,  as  she  expected.  Pauline  Topliff,  wear 
ing  a'  blue  dress  that  just  matched  her  eyes,  and  rib 
bons  in  her  hair  that  matched  the  dress,  had  never  once 
spoken  to  her ;  and  had  even  declared,  in  a  half  aside, 
to  Helen  Semple,  that  she  "couldn't  bear  contrasts, 
or  bran' -new  things;  and  pink  and  brown  were  dread 
fully  vulgar."  This  weighed  upon  Say's  heart,  and 
even  upon  her  conscience. 

She  felt  that  she  had,  somehow,  got  with  the  wrong 
girls  this  afternoon,  and  that,  if  her  mother  knew,  she 
would  not  like  it.  She  supposed  she  ought  to  have 
stayed  sitting  by  Pauline  Topliff 's  elbow,  even  after 
that  elbow  was  very  unceremoniously  thrust  forward, 
and  a  hint  given  that  the  sofa  was  crowded.  It  had 
been  very  comfortable  in  the  corner,  afterward,  with 
Lucy  Briggs,  who  had  a  new  book  of  fairy  stories,  and 
who  let  her  "look  over."  But  she  knew  that  it  had 
been  all  wrong.  And  yet  the  Topliff  set  would  n't 
have  her.  What  was  she  to  do?  She  did  n't  under 
stand  why  it  was.  Pauline  Topliff  was  very  pretty; 
and  she  danced  the  Gavotte  beautifully,  she  and  Helen 
Semple  together;  and  Say  would  have  thought  herself 
in  heaven,  almost,  —  so  great  was  her  spontaneous  ad 
miration,  and  so  strong  her  instilled  ambition,  —  if 
she  could  have  once  had  Pauline  Topliff 's  arm  thrown 
round  her  in  the  free  girlish  familiarity  that  Pauline 
showed  to  her  especial  friends,  and  that  Lucy  Briggs 
and  other  girls,  of  a  more  accessible  order,  were  quite 
ready  to  show  to  herself.  But  ever  since  that  after 
noon  of  her  first  overture,  made  dutifully,  in  the 
spirit  of  her  mother's  injunctions,  when  she  tried  to 
"get  acquainted  "  by  offering  half  her  book  to  Pauline, 
and  the  blue  eyes  had  opened  so  very  wide ;  and  such 
a  surprised  voice  had  exclaimed  to  the  friend  with 
whom  the  young  lady  immediately  got  up  and  walked 
off,  "Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  a  thing?  For  a 


INTO  PORT.  197 

strange  girl !  "  it  had  been  all  in  vain.  Beyond  a  cer 
tain  point, —  an  uncertain  one,  I  should  rather  say, 
since  even  a  partial  condescension  depended  on  the 
caprice  and  convenience  of  the  juvenile  exclusives, — 
Say  had  never  been  able  to  reach.  It  was  like  the 
poor  girl  in  the  story,  who  could  not  find  her  way  into 
the  Enchanted  Island.  An  invisible  wall  of  adamant 
opposed  her;  she  advanced  impetuously;  she  was 
thrown  back  ignominiously.  Say  went  straight  at  the 
wall  of  adamant ;  it  was  her  nature  to  be  impetuous ; 
she  showed  plainly  what  she  wanted ;  it  was  the  only 
way  she  knew  how  to  try  for  it.  So  she  seemed  odd 
and  awkward,  and  rude ;  so  failure  was  made  more 
positively  certain. 

So  her  little  child-world  puzzled  and  grieved  her. 
She  could  not  understand  why  things  were  so. 

But  behind  the  child-world  was  the  great  grown-up 
world.  This  she  knew  absolutely  nothing  of. 

Selport,  you  observe,  had  its  aristocracy.  Of 
course.  Every  town  and  village  on  this  continent  that 
was  a  wilderness  three  hundred  years  ago  develops 
that  in  its  growth,  by  the  inevitable  occult  law  of  hu 
man  crystallization.  Selport,  at  this  time  of  which 
I  write,  was  a  half -grown  city.  More  punctilious  and 
tenacious,  therefore,  concerning  its  little  dignities,  as 
all  half-grown  creatures  are,  than  it  would  be  probably 
when  it  should  get  a  little  bigger.  Why  on  earth 
Wilkins,  who  grew  fat  on  nails  and  flatirons,  twenty 
years  ago,  should  contemn  Simpkins,  who  is  doing  the 
same  thing  to-day,  as  fast  as  he  can,  is  among  the 
unaccounted  for  but  palpable  facts  in  social  science. 
The  thing  is,  and  always  has  been.  There  were  fami 
lies  in  Selport  who  sold  all  their  nails  and  flatirons, 
their  soap  and  candles,  —  a  generation  or  two  ago. 
All  these  knew  each  other.  This  was  the  circle  born, 
not  made.  Into  this,  one  must  be  born.  Fresh  com- 


198  THE  GAYWOBTHYS. 

ers  from  the  unknown  up-country,  making  the  begin 
nings  of  new  fortunes,  and  the  nuclei  of  new  circles, 
could  not  for  very  long  hope  to  wheel  into  an  orbit 
concentric  with  these.  Simpkins  must  roll  forth,  full- 
orbed,  from  his  nebulous  obscurity,  before  Wilkins  can 
behold  him  with  the  naked  eye. 

The  Gairs,  preeminent  in  Hilbury,  were  in  a  nebula 
at  Selport.  The  whole  object  of  their  lives  —  Mrs. 
Jane's  more  especially  —  was  to  find  their  way  out, 
and  begin  to  revolve  as  planets.  It  was  slow  work. 
With  all  her  ambition,  Mrs.  Gair  thought,  at  weary 
times,  that  she  could  almost  give  it  all  up,  and  relapse, 
contentedly,  into  chaos. 

I  don't  pretend  that  my  analogy  is  complete;  a 
more  perfect  method  obtains,  doubtless,  in  the  heavens, 
and  the  inchoate  worlds  are  kept  at  safe  distances  from 
the  established  systems;  but  in  the  social  firmament 
it  does  sometimes  happen  that  a  little  concrete  lumi 
nosity,  trembling  on  the  edge  of  one  of  its  nebulae, 
gets  caught  and  drawn,  once  in  a  cycle  or  so,  by  some 
favoring  attraction,  to  the  outskirts  of  a  sublime  solar 
order.  In  such  a  case,  it  is,  for  a  while,  one  of  the 
most  unhappy  little  objects  in  creation.  It  is  not 
quite  sure  of  belonging  anywhere.  Some  great  Ju 
piter,  or  benignant  Venus,  sweeps  along,  and  almost 
catches  it  up,  triumphantly,  into  the  place  where  it 
would  be.  But  its  own  tremendous  forces  bear  the 
planet  on  before  the  lesser  orb  can  complete  a  perfect 
revolution,  even  as  a  satellite;  and  so  it  oscillates 
fearfully,  in  peril  of  plunging  between  opposing  and 
disturbing  impulses,  down  awful  gulfs  of  wreck  and 
annihilation.  I  suppose  creation  must  go  on ;  and  it 
may  be  dastardly  to  say  so ;  but  I  think,  for  my  part, 
I  would  rather  stay  in  the  milkiest  part  of  the  Milky 
Way,  forever. 

"I  don't  know  the   person."      These  words,    from 


INTO  PORT.  199 

certain  lips  in  Selport,  were  irrevocable  oblivion. 
Human  nature  would  find  its  way,  sometimes,  though, 
for  all  that.  Good-hearted  little  Mrs.  Semple  — 
indisputably  of  the  "best  set" — was  in  continual 
peril  of  loss  of  caste,  through  mentioning  people 
whom  Mrs.  Topliff  "didn't  know."  She  would  have 
neighbors  in  the  side  street  that  turned  down  two 
doors  from  her  own.  Mrs.  Topliff  lived  in  a  broader 
street  than  either,  crossing  the  head  of  the  first ;  and 
her  house,  standing  opposite  the  opening,  took  in 
range  of  its  outlook  the  whole  length  between  its 
blocks.  This  typified  properly  her  social  position  of 
overlook  and  scrutiny. 

Mrs.  Semple  met  the  great  lady  one  morning,  walk 
ing  down  as  she  went  up. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Topliff!  Were  you  coming  to  me,  I 
wonder?  I  'm  so  sorry.  I  've  just  come  from  Mrs. 
Norris,  round  the  corner.  She  's  in  such  trouble, 
poor  little  woman !  Her  eldest  daughter,  a  sweet  girl, 
just  my  Helen's  age,  has  died,  after  an  illness  of  only 
four  days.  Only  think,  what  a  blow !  I'm  going 
down  town  for  her,  now,  to  order  the  dear  child's  bur 
ial  dress,  and  the  mourning.  I  'm  so  grieved  for  her." 

Thus  far  Mrs.  Topliff  might  have  endured  with  only 
her  chill  look  of  well-bred,  dignified  patience,  but 
when  incautious  Mrs.  Semple,  her  whole  -  mother's 
heart  touched,  went  on  to  narrate  some  circumstances 
of  the  brief  illness  of  this  young  creature,  "just  her 
own  Helen's  age,"  and  the  resistless  tears  stood  in  her 
eyes  as  she  spoke,  it  became  too  much. 

"My  dear,"  she  interposed,  with  a  freezing  empha 
sis,  "7  don't  know  Mrs.  Norris!  " 

"But  you're  a  mother!"  cried  the  other,  with  a 
startle  of  honest,  womanly  indignation.  She  forgot  to 
feel  guilty,  as  she  sometimes  did,  at  her  own  lapse 
from  the  restrictions  of  her  order. 


200  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

I  wonder  if  by  any  chance  it  ever  occurred  to  this 
woman,  who  was  a  mother,  and  who  supposed  herself 
a  Christian,  to  think  of  a  possible  moment  in  the 
mighty  future  when  a  Voice  more  awful  might  say,  "I 
never  knew  you !  Go  your  way !  " 

I  wonder  if  the  thought  of  that  higher  Recognition, 
or  that  unutterably  fearful  Ignoring,  might  not  some 
times  set  at  naught,  even  to  such  as  they,  the  petty 
human  dictum,  for  whose  favoring  utterance,  setting 
heart  and  soul  upon  the  aim,  women  like  Jane  Gair 
were  laboring. 

Laboring,  —  Mrs.  Gair  was,  —  and  building  up  her 
own  world  about  herself;  nor  for  herself  only.  This 
was  the  world  her  child  was  to  feel  out  into,  wonder- 
ingly,  with  innocent  hands.  A  world  of  petty,  false 
ambitions,  of  mean  subserviencies,  of  self-degrading 
shames. 

A  small  consolation  came  to  Sarah  at  the  end  of  this 
dancing- school  afternoon.  If  her  mother  had  been  at 
home  to  put  her  usual  questions,  —  "What  did  you  do? 
Who  did  you  sit  by?"  Say  must  have  confessed,  "I 
sat  by  Pauline  Topliff  a  little  while,  and  then  I  went 
and  read  a  book  with  Lucy  Briggs."  But  afterward 
she  could  have  added  the  salvo,  —  "And  then  Lucy 
and  I  walked  home  with  Helen  Semple."  She  was 
almost  sorry  now  for  what  she  had  been  glad  of  before : 
that  her  mother  was  away,  and  that  she  should  not  be 
required  to  give  account.  It  might  be  long  before  she 
should  have  as  much  to  boast  again.  Mrs.  Topliff  had 
called  at  the  school  early,  in  her  carriage,  and  taken 
Pauline  away  with  her ;  and  then  Helen  had  picked  up 
the  book  which  Lucy  and  Say  had  left  behind  them 
on  the  seat  when  they  went  to  join  their  class.  Two 
things  bring  children  at  once  to  a  common  level,  — 
sugar-plums  and  fairy  tales.  A  paper  of  bonbons  had 
often  been  a  temporary  propitiation;  the  story-book 


INTO  POET.  201 

was  irresistible.  Helen  condescended  to  linger  on, 
even  when  the  "bran* -new "  silk  and  ribbons  came 
rustling  and  fluttering  back,  and,  after  a  little  timid 
hovering,  settled  themselves  beside  her.  Lucy  Briggs, 
in  her  dark  merino,  sat  down  softly  and  simply,  in  the 
place  she  had  left.  She  had  been  taught  no  mortifying 
ambitions,  no  false  timidities.  If  Mrs.  Gair  could 
but  have  understood  it,  there  was  better  chance  in  the 
world  for  Lucy  Briggs,  the  wholesale  grocer's  daughter, 
than  for  the  child  of  the  merchant  who  brought  home 
groceries  in  his  own  vessels  from  South  America  and 
the  Indies.  Lucy  Briggs,  in  her  plain,  unpretending 
home,  had  a  true  woman  for  a  mother.  She  was 
growing  up  in  sweet,  ladylike  ways,  unaware,  with  no 
especial  thought  about  being  a  lady,  at  all.  Here  is 
where  the  two  extremes  meet ;  the  highest  breeding, 
the  purest  refinement,  the  most  undoubted'  position, 
would  account  for  its  being,  if  its  unconscious  feeling 
were  ever  rendered  in  words,  much  as  Topsy  did: 
"Don't  know;  'spect  I  growed!  "  It  is  the  half-way, 
restless,  striving,  self-sensitive  state  that  is  vulgar. 
Mrs.  Gair  had  not  mastered  this  secret  yet. 

Helen  Semple  borrowed  the  book  of  Lucy  Briggs, 
and  offered,  if  she  would  walk  home  with  her,  to  lend 
her  the  "Black  Velvet  Bracelet  "  in  return. 

So  Say  got  into  the  front  entry  of  Judge  Semple 's 
house,  and  waited  there  five  minutes. 

It  had  been  a  very  praiseworthy  thing,  she  thought, 
that  had  happened  to  her;  and  she  wished  her  mother 
were  at  home  to  know. 

A  dear  little  dutiful,  confiding  girl  was  Sarah  Gair ; 
she  trusted  in  her  mother's  supreme  wisdom;  the  mo 
ther  (thought  of  awe!),  though  she  be  but  a  fool, 
must  needs,  for  a  while,  represent  the  Supreme  Wis 
dom  to  her  child;  and  Say's  loyal  little  heart  warmed 
at  the  hope  of  pleasing  this  worldly  mother  of  hers, 


202  THE  GAY  WORTH  YS. 

as  few  of  our  grown-up  hearts,  perhaps,  warm  at  the 
thought  of  pleasing  God. 

"Now  make  haste,  Miss  Sarah,  darlint.  Yer  late, 
and  it's  moon-cakes  there  is  for  your  tay  to-night; 
and  take  aff  your  fine  silk  gown,  an'  pit  an  yer  ould 
one,  and  come  down  to  the  basemint,  like  a  good 
shild, "  said  Winny,  letting  her  in. 

"No,"  answered  Say,  "I  shan't  take  off  my  dress 
at  all.  And  you  may  bring  the  tea  upstairs.  And 
I  want  the  chandelier  lighted." 

"Arrah!  is  it  crazed  ye  are,  shild?  "  cried  Winny, 
aghast.  "Not  take  aff  yer  bran-new  silk  gown,  whin 
it  's  yer  mother  wud  always  have  ye  pit  back  intil  yer 
ould  frock,  an'  it  's  mussin'  it  ahl  ye  '11  be,  an'  sorra 
ha'porth  I  can  do  till  help  it !  An'  the  tay  upstairs, 
and  the  shandler  lighted.  Well,  well,  well,  what  '11 
I  do  at  all?" 

"Do  what  I  said,"  returned  Say,  with  dignity. 
"I  don't  like  bran' -new  things.  I  want  my  dress  to 
get  mussed  a  little.  My  things  all  stick  out  and 
crackle  so.  Nobody's  else  do.  And  I  've  been  to 
Helen  Semple's,  and  there  was  nobody  in  the  parlor 
but  her  father  and  mother,  and  the  chandelier  was 
lighted,  and  they  never  said  a  word  to  her  about  tak 
ing  off  her  dress.  I  don't  believe  she  ever  does.  Till 
she  goes  to  bed,  I  mean.  It 's  only  making  believe  to 
have  things,  when  you  pull  'em  off  the  minute  you  get 
home.  And  when  the  chandelier  is  never  lighted. 
I  'm  going  to  have  things  real.  Now  bring  up  the  tea 
and  the  moon-cakes."  And  Say  settled  herself  down 
very  comfortably  in  the  great  armchair  by  the  fire. 

"An'  ye  '11  never  mind  the  shandler,  like  a  good 
shild?" 

"Of  course  I  will,"  said  Say  impatiently.  "Don't 
make  me  tell  you  over  again  so  many  times.  There, 
take  this,  and  get  right  up  and  light  it  now,  —  that  Js 


INTO  PORT.  203 

a  good  Winny, "  she  added  coaxingly,  as  she  discov 
ered  the  demur  in  the  girl's  face.  "If  you  don't,  I 
shall!" 

"Arrah!  but  ye 're  a  quare  one!  I  shuppose  I 
must  jist  do  it  for  yees,  or  ye  '11  be  afther  smashin' 
ahl  the  glasses!  Sorra  do  I  know  what's  got  intil 
yees  the  night." 

The  tea  and  the  round  short-cakes,  christened 
"moon-cakes"  years  ago  by  Say,  were  brought  up; 
and  she  sat  there  in  the  brilliant  light,  with  her  silk 
dress  and  her  rose-colored  ribbons,  and  made  Winny 
wait  upon  her  as  scrupulously  as  if  she  had  been  a  lit 
tle  princess.  She  felt,  now,  she  was  having  things 
real.  It  was  the  truth  of  the  child's  nature  rather 
than  the  foolish  pride  of  it  that  indulged  itself  in  this 
wise. 

"I  wish  I  wasn't  all  alone!  "  she  said  to  herself, 
after  Winny  had  taken  the  tray  down.  "I  wish  some 
visitors  would  come.  I  wish  I  could  have  asked  Lucy 
Briggs  to  come  and  stay  all  night." 

Say  had  few  companions.  Even  by  grown-up  ac 
quaintances,  the  Gairs'  home  was  comparatively  little 
visited.  There  had  been  a  snubbing  of  some  people 
who  would  have  been  neighborly,  and  a  waiting  for 
others  who  seldom  or  never  condescended  to  appear. 
Mrs.  Topliff  was  president  of  one  or  two  charitable 
societies,  which  Mrs.  Gair  had  joined.  Once  or  twice, 
partly  on  some  business,  she  had  called.  Mrs.  Gair 
was  always  expecting  the  great  lady  to  "drop  in,  so 
cially,"  as,  with  civil  surprise,  she  had  received  invi 
tation  to  do.  Meanwhile,  Jane  put  on  "Topliff  airs," 
with  Mrs.  Briggs  and  Mrs.  Norris,  who  might  have 
been  her  friends.  Their  daughters,  also,  and  others 
like  them,  who  might  have  been  intimate  with  Say, 
were  set  aside,  when  the  child  suggested  either  of 
them,  with,  "Oh,  I  wouldn't  ask  her.  Why  don't 


204  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

you  invite  this  one,  or  that  one,  instead  ?  "  This  or 
that  one  would  not  have  come.  Say  was  too  proud  to 
acknowledge  this  in  words,  which  she  and  her  mother 
both  knew,  secretly,  very  well.  It  ended,  therefore, 
in  a  stiff,  cold,  unsocial  living;  a  sad  solitariness  for 
little  Say. 

"Perhaps  the  Pearl  has  got  in  to-day,  and  Gershie  '11 
come!" 

Say  felt  secretly  that  it  would  be  very  nice  if  Ger- 
sliom  should  come,  and  Captain  Burley  too,  perhaps, 
and  find  her  in  her  best  dress,  with  the  parlor  lighted. 

"I  'm  glad  I  kept  it  on.  Only  I  can't  go  into  the 
kitchen.  I  shall  have  to  make  Winny  come  up  and 
sit  here,  and  tell  me  a  story."  Which  Winny  was 
doing,  an  hour  later,  when  the  front  door-bell  rang, 
at  last,  and  a  voice,  grown  so  deep  and  strong  that  Say, 
listening  behind,  hardly  knew  it  for  Gershom's,  asked 
for  Mr.  Gair. 

"He's  gone  away  to  Hilberry;  he  and  the  mish- 
tress;  but  Miss  Sarah  's  at  home,  an'  it 's  she  that 's 
been  expictin'  yees, "  said  Winny,  at  the  door.  Then 
Say  sprang  out. 

"O  Gershom!   I  'm  so  glad!  " 

But  she  paused  when  she  saw  the  stout,  manly-grown 
figure  that  stood  there,  in  the  rough  pilot  coat ;  and 
Gershom,  after  a  quick  movement  to  meet  the  little 
cousin  who  had  been  in  his  thoughts  all  through  the 
long,  dark  watch  on  deck  last  night,  paused  also,  when 
he  saw  the  fine  little  person  that  emerged  with  rustling 
silk  and  ribbons,  in  the  flood  of  light  from  the  open 
parlor  door.  He  couldn't  catch  that  in  his  arms! 
He  had  been  used  to  tarred  ropes  and  rough  sailcloth. 
He  had  thought  of  Say  without  her  foibles  or  fineries, 
as  we  always  think  of  the  lost  or  far  away;  and  now, 
here  she  was,  "dressed  up,  and  toes  in  position,"  as  he 
had  said  of  old  in  Hilbury;  and  this  to  welcome  him! 


INTO  PORT.  205 

She  put  up  her  face  to  be  kissed,  and  he  kissed  her ; 
but  she  felt  that  "he  wasn't  half  so  glad  to  see  her  as 
she  had  expected."  She  knew  there  was  a  disapproval 
in  the  look  bent  down  upon  her,  as  they  went  in  to 
gether  to  the  bright  parlor.  There  seemed  to  be  no 
great  charm  in  the  new  silk  dress,  after  all.  Nobody 
thought  much  of  it.  She  began  to  hate  it  herself. 
Somehow,  things  did  n't  feel  so  true  to  her  as  they 
had  a  few  minutes  ago.  She  was  a  little  ashamed  of 
this  great  light  she  had  got  up  in  the  room. 

"When  did  Uncle  Reuben  and  Aunt  Jane  go  to  Hil- 
bury?  "  asked  Gershom.  He  was  afraid  to  add  "what 
for?" 

"Last  Friday,  I  believe.      Grandpa's  sick." 

"  Sick  ?  How  sick  ?  "  He  turned  toward  her  quickly, 
and  the  words  came  with  a  jerk. 

"Oh,  not  very,  I  guess.  He's  been  sick  a  good 
deal  lately." 

There  was  a  silence,  then,  for  an  instant. 

"You  don't  seem  to  think  much  about  it,"  said 
Gershom  presently,  with  something  of  the  old,  hard, 
bitter  tone.  "You  're  keeping  house  in  a  grand  way 
here  all  alone." 

He  felt  indignant ;  but  it  was  not  that  only.  He 
spoke  recklessly;  anything,  rather  than  ask  on  about 
what  he  was  afraid  to  hear. 

It  was  so,  then,  as  he  had  dreaded.  There  had  been 
changes  while  he  had  been  away.  He  should  not  find 
all  as  it  was  in  the  old  home  that  he  had  come  back 
to  safely.  He  had  felt  the  premonition  of  this  amidst 
his  most  joyful  anticipations.  When  did  he  ever  go 
away  and  come  back  again,  after  any  of  the  few,  short 
absences  he  had  made  before,  and  find  all  as  he  had 
left  it  ?  The  first  time  he  went  a  journey  in  all  his 
life,  —  to  Hilbury  it  was,  with  his  mother,  when  Hil- 
bury  was  not  yet  his  home,  —  he  had  come  back  to  find 


206  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

his  clog  dead;  after  his  terms  at  school,  there  had  al 
ways  been  something  altered  at  the  farm,  though  month 
in  and  out,  while  he  stayed  there,  there  had  seemed  to 
be  no  change  at  all.  And  he  had  known  there  would 
be  something  now;  and  this  was  it, —  this  that  he 
had  not  dared  to  let  himself  be  afraid  of,  but  that  he 
knew  now  he  had  feared,  ever  since  he  sailed  away 
without  his  mother's  kiss  and  the  old  man's  hand  laid 
in  blessing  on  his  head :  that  something  should  touch 
one  of  those  two  while  he  was  gone. 

He  stood  thinking  this,  and  looking  into  the  fire. 

Say  got  into  the  corner  of  the  sofa  and  watched  him, 
with  great  tears  coming  in  her  eyes,  and  feeling  mean 
and  miserable  in  her  silk  gown,  and  wishing  that  it 
would  turn  to  rags  like  Cinderella's,  and  that  the  lamps 
would  somehow  all  go  out. 

"  How  long  ago  did  he  begin  to  be  sick  ?  "  Gershom 
asked  again,  after  a  while,  still  looking  into  the  fire. 

"  First  of  all  ?  "  said  Say  tremulously. 

"Yes." 

"Why,  ever  so  long.  After  he  went  home  from 
here.  Mother  said  he  got  tired  out,  because  he 
wouldn't  stay  when  you  were  gone;  and  then  he  got 
caught  in  a  great  rain;  and  so  mother  and  I  went  to 
Hilbury,  and  he  was  sick  a  good  while." 

"Tell  me  exactly  when  that  was,"  said  Gershom, 
turning  round  suddenly  and  sternly  upon  her,  as  if  she 
had  been  a  culprit  whom  he  was  cross-questioning. 

The  sobs  fairly  came  in  the  child's  throat  now. 

"If  you  only  wouldn't  be  so  cross  with  me,"  she 
said,  with  a  piteous  falter.  "It  was  —  that  night 
—  after  you  went  away  in  the  Pearl  —  that  grandpa 
came.  And  he  was  so  tired  and  sorry.  And  —  so  was 
I,  Gershie.  And  I  thought  —  I  should  be  so  glad  — 
when  you  came  back !  " 

She  crushed  herself  all  down  into  a  heap,    as  she 


INTO  PORT.  207 

finished,   and   hid   her   head   against   the    sofa-pillow, 
crying. 

Then  Gershom  came  and  sat  down  by  her,  and  spoke 
more  softly. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  be  cross  with  you,  Say.  Only 
it  seemed  as  if  you  didn't  care  very  much  at  first. 
And  you  were  all  dressed  up  so.  I  never  liked  you 
quite  so  well  when  you  were  fine,  you  know ;  and  I  'm 
a  rough  sailor  now.  Besides,  we  can't  be  very  glad 
if  grandfather  is  sick." 

"You  think  I  don't  care  for  anything  but  ribbons 
and  new  shoes.  You  always  did.  I  wish  you  'd  put 
out  all  the  lamps  and  let  me  cry." 

"No,  don't  cry,  Say.  I  won't  be  cross.  But  I 
want  to  know  all  about  it.  Sit  up  and  tell  me."  He 
put  his  arm  round  her,  gently,  and  drew  her  up  out  of 
her  abandonment.  "Didn't  mother  get  my  letter? 
I  wrote  and  told  her  when  the  Pearl  was  going  to  sail. " 

"I  don't  know.  I  guess  so,"  said  Say,  struggling 
with  her  tears.  If  Gershie  meant  to  be  kind,  she 
wouldn't  be  sulky.  "But  grandpa  thought  perhaps 
she  wouldn't  go.  So  he  came,  and  went  right  back 
again,  in  the  rain."  Say  paused  here,  but  Gershom 
waited  for  more,  and  with  an  effort  she  went  on.  "I 
don't  remember  exactly;  but  mother  and  I  went  up  to 
Hilbury  when  they  sent  us  word,  and  there  was  some 
thing  about  a  letter,  too ;  I  heard  Aunt  Prue  ask  mo 
ther  if  it  came  before  you  went.  I  remember  that, 
because  mother  said  yes,  and  Aunt  Prue  seemed  to  be 
put  out  because  mother  had  n't  given  you  the  message. " 

Here  it  was  again.  Something  kept  back  and  cov 
ered  up,  that  he  was  to  have  known.  He  remembered 
well  the  mention  of  the  letter,  of  which  all  that  had 
been  told  him  had  been  about  the  four  new  linen  shirts. 
Aunt  Jane,  with  her  soft,  sympathizing  ways,  had  been 
double,  both  in  speech  and  deed. 


208  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

Say  slid  back  again  into  her  corner ;  she  had  exerted 
herself  thus  far  rather  than  be  sulky  with  Gershom; 
but  it  would  not  be  quite  right  with  her  now  till  she 
should  have  had  her  cry  out,  let  him  be  as  kind  as  he 
might.  He  partly  let  her  go;  something  in  him  at 
the  moment  shrunk  away  from  Jane  Gair's  child. 

Say  drew  little  sobbing  breaths,  softly.  Gershom 
seemed  not  to  be  aware.  In  a  minute  or  two  she 
looked  around  furtively. 

"I  could  find  the  letter  if  you  want  it,  Gershom. 
I  know  where  mother  puts  them  all.  And  there  are 
only  one  or  two  of  Aunt  Prue's." 

"I  don't  read  other  people's  letters,"  answered 
Gershom  shortly. 

"I  only  meant  about  the  message,"  said  Say  dep- 
recatingly.  She  felt  suddenly  mean,  again,  as  if  she 
had  tried  to  steal  something  and  been  caught.  She 
loved  Gershom  clearly;  and  yet  he  always  made  her 
feel  a  self-contempt,  somehow.  She  did  not  think  he 
was  fair  to  her,  and  yet  he  made  her  look  at  herself 
with  his  eyes.  People  she  feared  or  cared  -for  always 
did  this.  They  over-magnetized  her.  She  could  not 
maintain  her  thought  against  theirs. 

"Good-night,  Say,"  said  Gershom  suddenly.  "I'm 
going  down  aboard  the  Pearl  again.  To-morrow 
morning  I  shall  go  to  Hilbury.  I  've  got  some  great 
pink  and  spotted  shells  for  you  in  my  chest,  and  a  red 
basket.  I  '11  give  them  to  the  steward  to  keep  till  you 
go  down." 

Say  kissed  him  when  he  leaned  down  to  her,  and 
said  not  a  word  to  urge  him  from  his  purpose.  It 
never  entered  her  head  to  dispute  Gershom's  will.  In 
a  moment  he  was  gone.  Then  she  climbed  up  on  the 
table  and  screwed  down  the  lamps  one  after  another, 
till  there  was  only  the  firelight  left  in  the  room.  And 
then  she  reached  and  tugged  at  the  hooks  of  her  dress, 


INTO  PORT.  209 

till  she  had  unfastened  them  all,  and  pushed  it  down 
about  her  to  the  floor.  She  just  set  her  foot  upon 
it  once,  deliberately,  as  it  lay  there,  and  then  flung 
herself  back  into  the  sofa-corner  again,  and  pulled  the 
pillow  down  over  her  head  and  her  bare  shoulders,  and 
lay  and  cried,  saying  over  and  over  to  herself,  "It  was 
horrid,  —  horrid !  "  Half  comprehending  her  own 
shame  and  pain,  she  cried  herself  to  sleep  at  last ;  and 
Winny,  when  the  game  of  cards  was  finished  in  the 
kitchen,  came  up  and  found  her  so. 

Gershom  went  down  through  the  dim  streets  to  the 
wharf  and  to  the  brig  again.  The  shipkeeper's  watch 
—  a  couple  of  sturdy  fellows  —  were  pacing  the  quar 
ter-deck;  they  took  no  notice  as  Gershom  came  up 
the  side,  and  passed  on  forward.  He  had  said,  when 
he  went  ashore,  that  he  might  as  likely  as  not  come 
back  to  sleep.  An  hour  after,  Ned  Blackmere  also 
returned.  The  watch  knew  him,  too;  he  passed  his 
nights  on  board,  more  often  than  otherwise,  when  the 
brig  was  in  port.  Indeed,  it  had  usually  been  counted 
on  that  he  would;  and  Buxton,  the  shipkeeper,  ar 
ranged  his  force  accordingly.  Blackmere  passed 
quietly  forward,  also,  and  went  down  into  the  fore 
castle.  He  struck  a  match,  and  lit  his  pipe.  His 
face  showed  sterner  and  gloomier  than  ever,  by  the 
instant's  flash.  He  saw  Gershom  Vorse  lying  in  his 
berth;  and  a  kind  of  lurid  smile  came  over  his  fea 
tures,  revealing  rather  than  relaxing  their  grim  look, 
as  the  lightning  shows  the  cloud. 

"He  wasn't  wanted,  then,  no  more  than  I;  he'll 
find  'em  out,  at  last."  Old  Barnacle  said  this  to  him 
self,  as  his  match  went  out,  and,  with  his  pipe  alight, 
he  passed  quietly  up  the  ladder  and  out  upon  the  deck. 

Gershom  Vorse  was  not  asleep.  He  heard  Ned 
Blackmere  pacing  there,  above  him,  to  and  fro,  to  and 
fro,  for  half  the  night  after. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

COMING ! 

WEALTHY  HOOGS  went  down  through  the  long  barn 
with  her  milk-pails  on  her  arm. 

She  set  them  on  the  floor,  and  passed  between  the 
stanchions  into  the  great  standing-place.  There  she 
set  open  a  side  door  that  led  into  the  yard;  and  one 
after  another  five  great,  mild,  milky-sweet  mammals 
put  their  horned  heads,  with  rimy,  vaporous  nostrils, 
in  at  the  entrance,  and  presently  offered  their  meek 
necks  to  captivity  of  peg  and  beam. 

Wealthy  tossed  down  great  trusses  of  hay  to  them 
from  the  mow-side,  and  took  a  minute's  rest,  then, 
while  they  were  feeding,  sitting  down  on  the  shaft  of 
a  heavy  hay  wagon,  and  leaning  her  elbows  on  her 
knees,  and  her  chin  in  her  hands. 

"I  wonder  if  there  's  never  any  end  to  doin'f  "  she 
said  to  herself.  "And  I  should  like  to  know  how 
it  would  seem,  just  once,  to  be  done  for !  —  I  should 
like  to  be  made  much  of,  and  tended,  — yes,  babied, 
awhile,  for  the  sake  of  finding  out.  When  I  get  to 
heaven,  if  I  can  have  what  I  want,  it  '11  be  a  good 
strong  angel  to  follow  round  after  me  and  see  to  me 
all  the  time  I " 

"That 's  a  pretty  way  of  talking,  too,  Wealthy 
Hoogs !  "  she  said,  again,  catching  herself  up  after  a 
pause.  "As  if  you  did  n't  suppose  you  'd  got  it  now! 
There  's  nothing  given  out,  that  isn't  given  in  again 
from  Somewhere.  Tell  yourself  that." 

The  red  winter  sun,  setting  far  to  the  south,  sent 
its  crimson  shaft,  ninety-five  million  miles  long, 


COMING!  211 

straight  in  at  the  low  barn-side  door,  and  told  it  her, 
too.  "There's  a  way  for  it  to  come,  though  it's 
from  ever  so  far !  "  This  thought  whispered  itself  to 
her,  and  she  rose  up  again  to  her  labor. 

"She  took  up  her  burden  of  life,  again," 
Not  saying,  even,  "  it  might  have  been  !  " 

The  three  deep  pails  were  foaming  full  presently. 
But,  before  she  carried  them  up  to  the  house,  Wealthy 
went  round  to  where  the  "  gray  colt, "  an  equine  youth 
of  twenty,  stood  in  his  stall,  and  led  him  out,  and  put 
his  harness  on  him.  The  sleigh,  a  small  square  box 
on  runners,  stood  outside.  Wealthy  and  her  steed 
went  forth  together,  and  the  scrubby,  precocious  little 
beast  helped  all  he  could  to  put  himself  into  the  shafts. 

Ten  minutes  after,  the  milk  was  strained,  and 
Wealthy  came  into  the  kitchen  where  Jaazaniah,  in  a 
wadded  gown  of  comfortable  homespun,  sat  by  the  fire. 

He  had  got  a  good  deal  of  "the  rough  off,"  poor 
fellow,  since  we  saw  him  last.  Rheumatic  fever  had 
had  him  in  its  clutches,  and  had  wrenched  him  in  every 
joint.  And  now,  feeble,  and  thin,  and  pale,  with  a 
"turrible  poor  appetite,"  and  a  "wearin'  kind  of  a 
cough, "  he  sat  here  day  after  day,  and  waited ;  to  get 
better,  or  worse.  And  Wealthy  did  the  nursing,  and 
the  housework,  and,  as  we  have  seen,  pretty  much  of 
the  out-door  work,  too. 

"I've  put  the  colt  into  the  sleigh,  Jez, "  she  said 
cheerily,  as  she  came  in.  "And  if  you  don't  mind  it, 
for  an  hour  or  so,  I  'm  going  to  drive  down  to  the 
Bridge.  There  's  roots  to  be  cut,  and  wood  to  split, 
and  some  little  tinkerin'  jobs  to  do  about;  and  I  must 
see  to  get  'Siah  Ford  up  for  a  day  or  two.  And, 
then,  I  don't  durst  to  be  any  longer  without  that  lini 
ment  ;  you  might  have  your  pain  back,  on  a  sudden ; 
and,  Jez,  I  've  half  a  mind  to  get  that  new  doctor  to 


212  THE  GAY  WORTHY  S. 

drop  round  here  and  take  a  look  at  you.  He  might 
think  of  something,  you  know',  to  start  your  appetite, 
and  give  you  a  little  strength." 

This  last,  you  see,  was  what  Wealthy  had  really 
made  up  her  mind  to  go  for. 

There  had  come  a  new  doctor  to  the  Bridge,  within 
three  months  past.  Good  Dr.  Gay  worthy's  failing 
health  had  created  an  "opening."  With  nobody  knows 
what  instinct,  from  however  far  away,  there  is  always 
an  instant  heading  of  eager  capacity  toward  room  so 
made.  How  do  they  find  it  out  ?  How  do  the  wild 
geese  find  out  when  the  great  icebergs  are  breaking  up 
northward,  and  the  summer  seas  are  widening,  and 
they  may  go  and  build  their  nests  ? 

The  stage  drove  up  to  the  post-office,  as  Wealthy 
Hoogs  came  into  the  village  at  the  Bridge.  Post-office 
and  village  store  were  all  one ;  and  here  Wealthy  also 
drove  up  and  alighted;  and  so  met  Gershom  Vorse. 

"Well,  of  all  things!  To  think  I  should  have  lit 
right  upon  you!  "  she  cried.  "When  did  you  get  back 
from  sea?  Do  your  folks  expect  you?  There  don't 
seem  to  be  any  of  'em  here.  Jump  right  in  with  me. 
I  can  take  you  round,  just  as  well  as  not.  I  've  only 
got  to  speak  to  'Siah  Ford,  and  stop  a  minute  at  the 
new  doctor's." 

The  new  doctor's! 

Those  three  words  told  Gershom  how  the  last  eight 
months  had  settled  his  life  for  him.  His  good  old 
grandfather  breaking  down,  disabled ;  his  place  already 
filled.  Would  it  have  been  so  if  he  had  stayed  at 
home ;  if  he  had  taken  up  the  life  the  old  man  meant 
for  him ;  if  everybody  had  known  that  he  was  coming, 
by  and  by,  when  he  was  needed,  to  follow  the  heredi 
tary  calling  for  which,  for  three  generations  back,  there 
had  not  failed  a  son  of  the  same  house?  He  would 
have  been  nearly  through  a  college  year,  by  this  time; 


COMING!  213 

and  he  had  been  ready  to  enter  as  Sophomore.  Would 
his  grandfather  have  been  ill,  but  for  the  worry  and 
exposure  he  had  been  the  means  of  his  incurring;  but 
for  the  want  of  the  help,  also,  that  he  should  have 
given?  They  were  painful,  self -scourging  thoughts 
the  boy  had,  as  he  sat  there,  waiting  while  Wealthy 
Hoogs  got  her  bottle  filled  with  liniment. 

"I  suppose  you've  heard  all  the  Hilbury  news ?  " 
said  Wealthy,  as  she  took  her  seat  beside  him. 

"No,"  said  Gershom.  "There  were  only  two  other 
passengers  in  the  coach;  and  they  were  strangers. 
The  driver  seemed  to  be  a  new  man,  too." 

"That 's  part  of  the  news.  Abner  's  gone  out 
West  —  where  the  smartest  men  and  the  laziest  all 
go.  He  's  a  lazy  one.  He  '11  expect  to  stand  out  in 
the  middle  of  a  prairie,  an'  p'int  round,  north,  south, 
east,  west,  an'  say,  'Wheat,  Barley,  Oats,  Rye,'  an' 
see  'em  grow!  Maybe  he  will;  but  it 's  a  good  way 
to  go  on  a  slim  chance.  Old  Mr.  Fairbrother  's  dead, 
you  know  ?  " 

How  should  he  know?  Gershom  started.  The 
words  smote  him  with  a  shock.  Was  everybody  dead, 
or  dying,  or  gone,  that  he  had  come  back  to  see,  after 
these  eight  months? 

"Oh,  yes;  he  died,  quite  sudden,  a  month  ago. 
I  forgot;  of  course,  you  could  n't  have  got  a  letter 
since  then.  I  think  that  's  one  thing  that  's  helped 
to  upset  your  grandfather.  They  were  always  great 
friends." 

"  How  is  —  the  doctor  ?  " 

Gershom  was  sensitive,  all  at  once,  coming  back  to 
his  towns-people,  of  using  again  the  term  of  kinship, 
which  might  only  set  them  thinking  that  he  had  no 
right  to  it;  that  there  was  "no  blood  relation,  after 
all." 

"Well,"  —  hesitatingly,  —  "you  heard  he  was 
sick?" 


214  THE  GAY  WORTHY S. 

"Yes;   I  heard  that  in  Selport." 

"He  's  been  pretty  bad,  that 's  a  fact.  Most  folks 
thought  he  wouldn't  weather  through  it.  Lung  trou 
ble  again.  But  he  's  got  a  wonderful  constitution, 
and  he's  had  good  nursin'.  Those  things  come  be 
fore  doctors,  both  of  'em.  And  I  guess,  when  Jane 
Gair  and  her  husband  's  gone,  and  the  house  gets  qui 
eted  down,  he  '11  pick  up,  and  be  smart  again.  It  's 
the  worst  thing  in  the  world  to  send  for  sick  folks' 
friends,  without  they  can  do  something.  They  just 
gather  round,  and  look  on ;  and  I  believe  half  the  peo 
ple  that  die  do  it  because  they  see  it 's  expected  of 
'em.  Nobody  likes  to  make  a  muster  for  nothing." 

"  How  is  Jaazaniah,  cousin  Wealthy  ?  " 

He  asked  it  more  for  kindness'  sake,  and  to  change 
the  topic,  than  from  any  doubt  of  the  farmer's  well- 
being;  but  he  got  Wealthy 's  last  item  of  news  for 
answer.  Still  of  the  same  sort. 

"Jaazaniah  's  keeled  up,  too;  he  's  had  a  rheumatic 
fever,  and  been  poorly  enough  all  winter.  That  's 
what  I  'm  coming  here  for." 

And  she  motioned  Gershom,  who  held  the  reins, 
toward  the  white  paling  of  the  little  house  on  the  cor 
ner  of  the  village  street.  This  was  where  the  "new 
doctor  "  lived. 

The  world  goes  on,  pausing  for  nobody  to  make 
experiments,  or  change  his  mind.  Nobody  can  take 
up  his  old  life-thread  at  any  one  point  where  he  may 
have  left  it.  Everything  else  has  shaped  itself  to  his 
first  decision,  with  a  facile,  fatal  mobility.  Circum 
stances  have  flowed  in  around  his  act,  and  hardened  to 
barriers  against  recantation. 

In  his  first  half  hour  at  Hilbury,  Gershom  Vorse 
began  to  grow  aware  of  this. 

"Let  me  get  out  here,"  he  said,  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill.  "And  you  drive  right  straight  on.  Unless 


COMING!  215 

you  '11  come  in,  I  'd  as  lief  not  have  them  hear  the 
bells  stop  at  the  house." 

"Oh,  I  can't  come  in,"  said  Wealthy.  " Jez  '11 
be  growing  uneasy;  and  I  guess  you  're  in  the  right  to 
get  in  as  quiet  as  you  can.  Nobody  knows,  that 
has  n't  been  sick,  or  been  a  good  deal  with  'em,  how 
sick  folks  mistrust  all  that  goes  on  about  a  house. 
Oh,  la," — to  Gershom's  thanks,  —  "it  was  no  kind 
of  trouble!  come  and  see  Jez,  won't  you?  It'll  do 
him  a  sight  of  good, "  and  Mrs.  Hoogs  made  mild  sug 
gestions  with  bit  and  reins  to  her  well-broken  nag, 
and  drove  straight  on,  as  she  was  asked. 

Gershom  walked  up  the  hill,  and  turned  in  by  the 
garden  fence,  across  the  chipyard.  He  went  up  to 
the  side  door,  and  there  he  stopped,  and  stood  still 
upon  the  great  door-stone.  If  he  could  only  see  his 
mother,  first,  alone! 

They  were  all  expecting  him,  shortly.  Only  his 
mother,  though,  thought  of  him  momently,  and  mo 
mently  looked  for  him  to  come.  The  vessel  would  be 
in  fair  time,  Mr.  Gair  had  told  them,  at  the  end  of 
the  week,  or  by  the  first  of  next.  This  was  only 
Thursday. 

But  Prudence  Vorse  was  restless  to-night.  There 
was  something  in  the  air  for  her,  though  other  nerves 
might  easily  not  feel  it.  She  could  not  pass  a  win 
dow,  in  her  goings  to  and  fro,  without  looking  out 
into  the  winter  starlight. 

Jane  was  upstairs,  sitting  with  her  father;  she 
always  had  the  evening  watch  in  the  sick-room,  as  she 
could  not  sit  up  nights ;  Rebecca,  who  was  to  be  called 
at  ten,  was  sleeping  in  her  own  chamber ;  Joanna  was 
washing  up  the  tea  things  in  the  sitting-room,  and 
Mrs.  Vorse  was  making  a  bowl  of  arrowroot  at  the 
kitchen  fire,  when  Wealthy  Hoogs  drove  by,  her 
sleigh-bells  leaving  a  cheery  wake  of  sound  behind  her. 


216  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

Nobody  else  noticed  it;  but  it  startled  Prue. 
Why?  It  went  straight  on;  yet  the  noise  of  the  bells 
broke  upon  her  like  a  summons,  and  seemed  to  ring  a 
message  to  her,  as  it  passed. 

"  Coming,  —  coming,  —  coming,  —  coming !  "  If 
they  did  not  syllable  it,  they  put  the  feeling,  some 
how,  with  a  fresh  leap,  into  her  heart. 

She  set  down  the  bowl,  into  which  she  had  just 
stirred  salt  and  a  teaspoonful  of  brandy;  she  stood, 
looking  into  the  coals,  thinking;  sending  her  soul  out 
to  meet  the  child.  Away  out  upon  the  deep  she  had 
gone  in  spirit,  day  after  day,  night  after  night ;  down 
upon  the  seacoast  she  had  waited,  thinking  of  the 
bright  sails  that  should  come  up,  some  morning,  in  the 
winter  sunlight,  bringing  her  hope  again ;  to-day, 
somehow,  she  had  not  yearned  forth  so  far ;  she  had 
thought  of  when  he  might  be  coming  on  the  homeward 
road,  up  from  the  busy  city,  into  the  white  stillness 
of  the  hills ;  and  every  now  and  then,  let  her  be  doing 
what  she  might,  a  joy  that  seemed  hanging  in  the  air 
would  seize  her  suddenly,  with  a  sweet,  electric  pang. 
Now  —  this  moment  —  it  was  close  upon  her.  Far 
ther  than  the  echo  of  those  bells,  she  could  not  send 
her  thought  out ;  but  to  the  sound  of  them  her  pulse 
sprang  restlessly ;  so  she  set  her  bowl  down,  and  stood 
there,  listening,  those  few  moments  while  their  reso 
nance  lasted;  and  then,  suddenly,  she  turned,  as  by 
some  swift  magnetic  impulse,  and  went  out  toward  the 
door.  Not  knowing  why.  She  would  look  down  the 
road.  She  would  feel  what  the  weather  was. 

She  did  neither.  She  looked  no  farther  than  her 
boy's  face,  waiting  for  her  there  in  the  starlight. 
She  felt  no  cold  that  came  in  with  him.  She  folded 
him  silently  in  her  arms,  and  drew  him  in. 

Joanna  came  presently  from  the  sitting-room,  and 
found  the  two  standing  together  on  the  kitchen  hearth. 


COMING !  217 

An  exclamation  sprang  to  her  lips ;  but  Prue  put  her 
finger  up,  and  the  habit  of  the  still  house  checked 
her.  She  gave  him  a  glad  greeting,  quietly;  and 
would  have  gone  away  again,  then,  and  left  him  to 
his  mother. 

But  for  the  bowl  of  arrowroot,  Prue  might  have 
been  glad  to  have  it  so ;  as  it  was,  she  stopped  her. 
"Never  mind,  Joanna;  it  isn't  worth  while;  the  doc 
tor  must  have  this  while  it 's  fresh,  and  he  takes  it 
best  from  me." 

"Can  I  see  grandfather  to-night?  "  asked  Gershom. 

"I  wish  you  could,"  said  Prue  slowly  and  emphat 
ically,  "or  else,  — I  wish  nobody  besides  need  know 
that  you  are  in  the  house !  " 

"Why?  "  questioned  Joanna  quickly,  in  surprise. 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Prue,  still  with  the 
same  slow  earnestness.  "I  can't  always  tell  why  I  do 
think  things.  I  don't  know  why  I  went  and  opened 
the  door  just  now;  but  I  did;  and  I  could  n't  have 
helped  it;  and  Gershom  was  there." 

Prue  was  of  too  integral  an  honesty,  perhaps,  to 
understand  the  subtle  shadows  of  doubt  that  warned 
her  of  a  doubleness  in  another.  But  she  had  an  un 
easy  feeling,  although  she  did  not  care  to  define  it, 
that  if  Jane  knew  of  the  boy's  arrival,  it  would  mix 
up  things  somehow ;  that  some  untowardness  would 
result ;  either  the  old  man  would  be  sure  to  be  unable 
for  the  meeting,  or  it  would  happen  at  some  unfavora 
ble  moment.  What  Jane  would  have  to  do  with  this, 
she  hardly  thought ;  she  could  not  certainly  have  told. 
There  are  unspoken  instincts  of  knowledge  between  life 
and  life,  of  which  we  can  scarcely  trace  the  growing 
up ;  we  only  know,  surely,  that  they  are  there. 

"Let  me  go  up  to  your  room,  mother;  you'll  be 
able  to  come  there  presently,  won't  you?  I  'd  rather 
not  see  them  all  to-night." 


218  THE  GAY  WORTHY  S. 

"There  's  no  need  of  saying  anything,  if  you  don't 
choose,"  said  Joanna  to  Prue.  "The  house  is  settled 
for  the  night,  and  it  's  just  as  well  to  make  no  stir." 

Joanna,  who  hated  so  all  intermeddling  of  "other 
folks, "  could  well  see  how  mother  and  son  might  long 
to  be  together,  and  have  each  other  quite  to  them 
selves.  This  was  all  she  saw.  The  same  straightfor 
ward  independence  which  she  would  have  used  in  her 
own  behalf,  she  counseled  in  theirs.  It  was  nobody's 
else  business,  if  they  chose  to  have  it  so,  and  nothing 
need  be  said. 

It  was  all  quite  reasonable,  and  right,  and  easy; 
Joanna  understood ;  to-morrow  it  would  be  enough  to 
say  that  Gershom  had  been  tired,  and  had  not  cared 
to  see  them  all  at  once ;  and  that  the  house  was  still, 
and  so  he  had  gone  quietly  upstairs ;  and  before  this 
need  be  said  at  all,  when  his  grandfather  should  wake 
in  the  early  morning,  in  Prue's  watch,  if  all  were 
well,  she  might  bring  him  in,  and  have  the  meeting 
over. 

But  this  was  not  quite  after  Prue's  way,  for  all; 
and  she  felt  like  a  smuggler,  going  up  the  end  stair 
case  to  her  own  room,  Gershom  following ;  and  when 
she  left  him  there,  and  turned  away,  taking  her  bowl 
of  arrowroot  to  the  doctor's  chamber,  where  Jane  sat, 
it  was  with  a  sensation  foreign  and  intolerable  to  her 
nature. 

Prudence  Vorse  would  never  have  made  a  general. 
She  would  never  have  been  equal  to  any  magnificent 
strategy;  she  would  have  marched  her  men  right  up 
in  face  of  the  enemy,  in  broad  daylight,  and  dared 
his  guns ;  and  beaten  him  so,  in  fair  fight,  or  not  at 
all. 

She  held  her  tongue  as  she  came  to  the  bedside, 
and  Jane  gave  up  her  seat  to  her ;  but  she  put  a  force 
upon  herself  to  do  it,  because,  here,  she  must;  and 


COMING!  219 

she  was  glad  when  Jane  moved  quietly  off  and  went 
away,  while  she  should  give  the  old  man  his  gruel. 
Afterward,  when  she  met  her  on  the  stairs,  coming  up, 
as  she  went  down,  she  passed  her  quickly,  —  almost 
roughly,  —  still  without  a  word.  Jane  shrugged  her 
shoulders,  and  smiled  a  little  as  she  went  on. 
"Prue  's  in  one  of  her  fierce  fits,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"It  must  be  horribly  uncomfortable;"  and  hugged 
herself  placidly  in  spirit.  Jane  was  never  fierce; 
calm  and  good-natured,  always;  never  forgetting  to 
be  polite.  One  got  along  so  much  better  in  the 
world,  if  one  were  only  wise  enough  to  know  it. 

At  ten  o'clock  Prue  went  and  called  Rebecca.  She 
stood  there  in  the  passage  between  Jane's  room  and 
the  doctor's,  until  Rebecca  glided  in  and  Jane  came 
out.  Then  she  stopped  her,  and  spoke  abruptly :  — 

"Gershom  is  come,  Jane.  I  didn't  choose  that 
you  should  know  it  before;  and  he  don't  want  to  see 
anybody  else  till  morning.  First  of  all,  if  the  doctor 
wakes  comfortable,  I  mean  he  shall  see  him." 

It  was  a  fair  fight,  and  aboveboard,  now.  By  the 
very  establishment  of  this,  Jane's  guns  were  silenced. 
She  had  not  a  word  to  say,  —  she,  in  her  soft  polite 
ness.  Brusque  truth  was  not  her  weapon,  as  it  was 
Prue's.  She  must  have  vantage-ground,  and  mask 
her  batteries ;  Prue  came  upon  them  with  a  bayonet- 
charge  of  outright  honesty,  and  carried  the  whole  line 
at  a  sweep.  There  is  nothing  that  so  circumvents  cir 
cumvention  as  a  thorough,  unlooked-for  directness. 

In  the  chill  between  midnight  and  morning,  Prue 
took  up  her  watch  in  the  sick-room. 

"Father  has  been  rather  restless;  he  wanders  a  lit 
tle,  I  think.  I  can  hardly  tell  whether  it  is  that  or 
dreaming.  He  talks  about  Benjamin,  and  even  little 
Will  that  died  so  long  ago."  Will  was  Jane's  brother, 
dead  in  babyhood,  thirty  years  before. 


220  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

Rebecca  said  this  low,  at  the  door,  before  she  went. 

"  I  think,  Prue,  he  has  never  left  off  worrying  about 
Gershom,  he  put  him  so  in  their  place.  If  he  would 
only  come  soon !  " 

"He  has  come,  Becsie;  he  came  last  night."  Her 
tenderness  and  joy  welled  up  in  these  words,  as  she 
spoke  them  to  Rebecca.  Prudence  was  neither  rough 
nor  fierce  now.  The  two  women  leaned  to  each  other 
with  a  mutual  impulse,  and  their  lips  met. 

A  low  voice  breathed  from  the  bed,  as  Prue  came 
up  to  it  alone :  — 

"'Me  have  ye  bereaved  of  my  children.  Joseph  is 
not,  and  Simeon  is  not ;  and  ye  will  take  Benjamin 
away:  all  these  things  are  against  me.' 

"Send  for  Ben,  Prue;  "  and  he  lifted  up  his  eyes 
to  her  face  beseechingly.  "Tell  him  to  come  to  me. 
All  the  boy  I  've  got  in  the  world ;  what  did  he  go 
away  for  ?  Benjamin,  —  it  was  right  he  should  be 
named  so,  he  was  Rachel's  son,  the  son  of  my  old 
age." 

"Go  to  sleep  now,  father,  he  is  coming;  he  will  be 
here  by  and  by. " 

" '  One  went  out  from  me ;  and  I  saw  him  not  since : 
and  if  ye  take  this  also  from  me,  ye  shall  bring  down 
my  gray  hairs  with  sorrow  to  the  grave.'  ' 

The  story  of  Israel  wandered  in  his  brain,  —  this 
old  man,  whose  sons  had  died  in  babyhood  and  boy 
hood  ;  from  whom  they  had  lured  his  last  stay,  —  Ra 
chel's  child's  child,1  whom  he  made  in  his  heart  as  his 
own ;  who  had  grown  up,  reminding  him,  as  his  youth 
bloomed,  of  Benjamin;  growing  so  into  Benjamin's 
place,  that  it  had  seemed  like  a  coming  back  of  the 
lost ;  so  that  now,  in  his  wandering  and  weakness,  he 
could  not  separate  the  thought  of  the  two. 

But  he  slept  at  last,  quieted  by  that  promise,  —  a 
real  sleep,  as  if  something  of  the  peace  Prue  brought 


COMING !  221 

in  with  her  had  stolen  over  him  also ;  and  by  and  by, 
—  hours  after,  —  when  the  gray  of  the  tardy  January 
dawn  began  to  crimson,  he  woke,  quite  calm  and  con 
scious  ;  conscious  of  something  that  had  come  to  him 
as  in  his  sleep,  • — •  that  was  his  first  thought  now ;  but 
that  he  was  not  sure  of. 

"Did  you  tell  me  he  had  come,  Prue?  or  did  I 
dream  it  ?  " 

"I  told  you,  father,"  said  Prue  tenderly,  coming 
to  him  with  some  warm,  nourishing  drink  she  had  got 
ready;  "and  now  when  you  have  had  this,  and  are 
quite  rested  and  strong,  I  'm  going  to  bring  him  in 
to  see  you." 

Prue  knew  just  how  to  hold  his  head  for  him,  and 
give  him  his  drink  comfortably;  she  knew  also  just 
how  much  to  bring,  —  she  never  dismayed  him  with  a 
cup  too  mighty ;  and,  partly  for  this,  and  partly  from 
a  childlike  acceptance  of  it  as  a  condition,  the  doctor 
swallowed  it  all,  to  the  last  drop;  and  then  he  lay 
back,  with  a  sweet  contentedness  in  his  face,  and 
looked  up,  his  eyes  asking  for  the  better  thing  she  was 
to  give  him  next.  She  bathed  his  face,  and  smoothed 
his  white  hair,  and  laid  the  bedclothes  even ;  and  then 
she  went  and  got  the  boy,  as  she  had  promised. 

"An  old  man  always  looks  far  older  for  not  being 
dressed,  Gershie,  or  for  ever  so  little  of  a  sickness ; 
you  must  remember  that." 

"I  am  afraid  I  shall  cry,  mother,  like  a  girl." 

"You  won't  do  any  such  thing,  Gershom, "  said  his 
mother  quickly,  turning  short  round.  "It  might  kill 
him." 

They  went  in  together ;  and  Gershom  did  not  cry ; 
but  the  tall,  brown  sailor  stood  by  the  old  man's  bed 
side,  and  laid  his  roughened  hand  in  his;  and  every 
fibre  of  him  trembled  with  deep  feeling;  for  as  Jacob 
had  been  to  Benjamin,  so  had  this  old  man  been  even 
to  him. 


222  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

And  the  legend  of  Genesis  was  still  repeating  itself 
in  the  sick  man's  thought;  for  he  turned  him  toward 
the  boy,  and  spoke  the  words  familiar  from  many  a 
heart-reading,  "'Now  let  me  die,  since  I  have  seen 
thy  face,  and  thou  art  yet  alive !  ' 

"Grandfather!" 

It  was  all  in  that  one  word :  the  fullness  of  feeling 
that  dared  no  further  trust  itself  to  utterance,  — the 
pleading  remonstrance  against  that  word  of  death,  — 
the  sorrow,  the  self-accusing,  the  love;  the  very  cry 
of  Cain,  —  "It  is  more  than  I  can  bear!  "  There  are 
single  human  tones  that  can  say  all  this,  and  more. 

The  old  man  answered  it. 

"My  son,  it  will  all  be  well,  and  as  God  pleases. 
No  other  hath  done  or  can  undo.  I  have  longed  for 
you,  and  you  have  come.  I  thank  Him !  " 

They  understood  each  other,  now;  they  felt  each 
other,  heart  to  heart.  None  could  put  a  thought  be 
tween  them  that  could  alter  this. 

"By  and  by  you  shall  come  and  tell  me  all  about 
your  ship,  and  your  sea-life.  You  've  seen  a  bigger 
piece  of  the  world  than  I  have,  Gershie." 

The  voice  was  faint.  The  good  doctor  was  tired 
with  his  effort  and  with  his  gladness ;  he  could  do  no 
more  now  for  a  while,  than  to  rest  silently  in  his 
grateful  thought.  But  he  would  not  let  the  boy  go 
away  heavy  with  too  great  solemnity.  He  would  say 
this  cheerful  word  of  common  interest  in  common  life 
first. 

Gershom  spoke  no  further  till  he  stood  alone  with 
his  mother  in  her  chamber.  Then  he  looked  her  full 
in  the  face  and  said :  — 

"Tell  me,  mother,  if  you  can,  just  what  you  wrote 
to  Aunt  Jane  before  I  went." 

His  mother  repeated  to  him  that  postscript  of  her 
letter,  word  for  word.  It  had  lain  in  her  memory 


COMING !  223 

ever  since.  She  had  considered  it  well  before  she 
wrote  it;  she  had  reviewed  it,  mentally,  over  and 
over,  in  those  twenty-four  hours  between  the  sending 
of  it  and  the  receiving  of  her  son's  letter.  She  had 
weighed  the  probable  effect  of  every  word  upon  him. 
She  had  not  given  him  up,  even  on  that  Tuesday  night 
when  his  own  word  came  that  he  must  go  away  with 
out  seeing  her. 

"That  was  it,"  she  said,  when  she  had  finished. 
"And  I  felt  sure  that,  let  things  be  as  they  might,  it 
would  bring  you  back." 

Ger shorn  Vorse  turned  pale  about  the  lips. 

"Mother,"  said  he  slowly,  and  without  vehemence, 
"I  will  never  forgive  Aunt  Jane  for  this." 

And  at  that  moment  his  mother  could  not  find  \t 
in  her  heart  to  answer  him  a  word. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

BIDDY    FLYNN    AND    HER    NEIGHBORS. 

THERE  were  tidy,  white-curtained  windows,  with 
blossoming  plants  looking  out  at  the  panes,  and  rooms 
with  clean-scoured  floors,  where  bits  of  comfortable 
carpet  were  laid  down,  and  all  the  snug,  attractive 
living  of  the  thrifty  poor,  in  some  other  portions  of 
that  same  tenement,  in  which  the  back  room  of  the 
ground  floor  was  rented  and  punctually  paid  for  by 
Ned  Blackmere.  When  he  went  off  upon  his  voyages, 
he  paid  beforehand.  His  wife  should  not  be  without 
a  roof  to  cover  her  and  her  shame. 

So  the  landlord  was  forbearing,  and  the  neighbors, 
for  the  poor  man's  sake,  complained  as  little  as  they 
could.  But  they  drew  their  little  children  inside 
their  doors  when  her  staggering  step  came  over  the 
threshold  in  the  dusk;  and  Biddy  Flynn,  the  washer 
woman,  would  listen  and  look  in  on  her  at  night,  be 
fore  she  went  to  her  own  bed,  for  fear  of  fire.  Biddy 
Flynn  had  a  fine  silk  shawl  that  she  wore  on  Sundays 
in  the  summer  time,  that  Ned  Blackmere  had  brought 
home  to  her  from  beyond  the  sea.  They  all  pitied 
Blackmere,  the  sailor,  —  these  simple  neighbors,  in 
their  honest  hearts ;  and  when  his  sad,  stern,  weather- 
beaten  face  was  seen  about,  and  he  passed  in  and  out, 
at  intervals,  among  them,  they  took  a  solemn  look  on 
their  faces,  too,  as  they  might  do  for  one  who  had 
death  in  his  home.  He  scarcely  knew  whether  they 
pitied  him  or  not.  He  never  sought  companionship 
among  them.  He  gave  Biddy  Flynn  the  shawl,  for 
his  wife  was  not  fit  for  it,  and  it  might  help  to  keep 


BIDDY  FLYNN  AND  HER  NEIGHBORS.    225 

her  patient.  He  was  afraid  that,  some  day,  losing 
patience,  they  might  turn  Susan  into  the  street. 

They  were  afraid,  too,  —  the  neighbors ;  afraid  as 
well  as  sorry  for  him.  He  was  such  a  terrible  strong 
man,  and  there  was  such  an  anger  in  his  eyes,  some 
times,  when  he  came  out. 

"Lord  grant  he  may  n't  be  left  to  lift  his  hand 
upon  her!  "  Luke  Dolan,  the  carpenter,  would  say  to 
his  Betsy,  in  the  room  above,  when  the  sound  of  fierce 
words,  —  gin  made  her  devilish,  not  stupid,  as  poor 
Ned  had  said,  —  and  of  deep,  stern  answers,  like  the 
restrained  rumble  of  an  earthquake,  would  come  up 
from  below. 

But  the  room  below  was  sometimes  empty  for 
weeks,  for  months ;  then  the  neighbors  had  peace  and 
respite.  Sukey  Blackmere  was  "off  on  her  travels," 
nobody  knew  where.  She  had  her  haunts,  her  cronies; 
also,  they  knew  that  now  and  then,  to  get  more  money, 
she  would  go  and  "take  a  place."  She  had  a  decent 
suit  of  black  that  only  saw  the  light  upon  these  emer 
gencies.  She  could  look  very  respectable  in  this,  with 
her  black  hair  brushed,  —  it  was  silky,  black  hair 
still,  for  Sukey  had  been  handsome,  —  with  threads  of 
gray  that  only  emphasized  the  respectability ;  and  she 
wore  a  middle  -  aged  dignity  that  one  would  hardly 
have  suspected.  She  was  a  good  cook,  and  an  Eng 
lishwoman  ;  that  was  a  great  thing.  She  had  been 
brought  up  in  the  household  of  a  county  family,  in  the 
old  country ;  hence  her  middle-aged  dignity  that  could 
be  so  deferential,  also;  a  manner  sure  to  take  here, 
where  a  rampant  independence  is  ordinarily  inspired 
with  the  first  breath  of  republican  air.  So  she  got 
into  good  places,  at  high  wages.  The  cloven  foot 
showed  presently,  but  she  was  seldom  "overcome." 
Her  fellow-servants  got  the  worst  of  it.  They  called 
her  what  her  husband  did,  —  a  she-devil.  True  to 


226  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

the  traditions  of  her  genus,  she  disappeared  by  and  by 
in  a  grand  explosion ;  then  she  came  home  with  money 
in  her  pocket,  —  marvelously  well  lined,  sometimes, 
after  short  absences,  —  and  dropped  to  her  lower  par 
allel  of  life.  On  these  two  tracks  she  ran,  leaving 
behind  her  a  pretty  little  thread  of  history  that  only 
she,  if  any  one,  could  trace. 

I  do  not  mean  to  enter  into  it ;  my  story  lies  not 
here.  What  I  have  to  sayy  I  will  say  quickly.  Some 
thing  came  of  it  all,  one  January  night;  a  tragedy, 
—  a  mystery;  an  added  blackness  over  Old  Barnacle's 
gloomy  life. 

Sukey  had  been  home  three  days ;  long  enough  to 
be  at  her  worst.  The  third  night  she  stayed  out  late. 

The  winter  evening  had  closed  in;  the  little  fami 
lies  were  gathered,  each  to  its  own  fireside.  Children 
were  washed  and  put  to  bed,  or  crawled  to  their  untidy 
couches,  unwashed,  according  to  the  genius  of  the 
different  homes ;  for  there  was  not,  of  course,  in  every 
room  of  the  old  mansion  that  had  come  to  be  a  human 
hive,  that  poetry  of  humble  living  I  have  hinted  at  in 
some;  simple  supper-tables  were  cleared  away;  bits 
of  crockery  were  washed  and  put  up  on  their  shelves ; 
the  hour  of  domestic  comfort  or  discomfort  had  ar 
rived. 

Biddy  Flynn  was  home  from  a  hard  day's  work. 
She  had  had  her  "cup  o'  tay, "  and  wanted  to  go  to 
bed.  First,  however,  she  had  a  little  routine  of  cere 
mony  to  go  through.  She  had  some  money  to  count 
that  was  tied  up  in  an  old  stocking-foot  and  kept  be 
hind  the  press.  She  had  some  more  to  put  with  it, 
that  she  unfastened  out  of  the  corner  of  her  necker 
chief,  —  her  wages  for  the  day.  This  she  reckoned 
over  carefully,  and  added  to  the  rest;  and  then  to 
prove  her  sum,  counted  up  all  together,  once  more. 
Biddy  was  saving  money,  —  lone  woman  that  she  was, 


BIDDY  FLYNN  AND  HER  NEIGHBORS.    227 

—  to  bring  over  by  and  by  a  sister's  child  from  the 
"ould  counthry."  Then  she  "racked"  her  hair,  and 
tied  it  up  tight,  in  anticipation  of  her  early  morning 
toilet,  thereby  reduced  to  the  washing  of  her  face,  and 
the  tying  on  of  a  clean  cap ;  then  she  said  her  prayers ; 
then  one  would  have  thought  she  must  be  ready  for 
repose ;  but  there  was  yet  one  thing  more  to  do. 

Against  the  wooden  partition  that  had  cut  a  large, 
old-fashioned  kitchen  in  two,  and  made  of  it  the  sepa 
rate  tenements  of  Biddy  Flynn  and  Sukey  Blackmere, 
the  sailor's  wife,  hung  a  gaudy  colored  print  of  the 
Madonna.  High  up,  so  that  it  could  only  be  reached 
by  climbing  on  the  deal  table  that  stood  beneath. 

Every  night,  between  her  prayer  and  slumbers, 
Biddy  so  aspired ;  and  every  night  the  gracious  Queen 
of  Heaven  came  down,  —  from  off  her  nail,  —  and 
Biddy  had  a  vision.  A  surreptitious  vision,  — hardly 
beatific,  —  through  a  crack  of  the  old  boarding,  from 
which  the  paper  had  split  away,  and  which,  just  here, 
the  ingenious  Biddy  had  enlarged,  —  to  a  comfortable 
breadth  on  her  own  side,  and  as  far  as  she  dared  upon 
the  other.  Two  thirds  of  the  room,  upon  the  farther 
side,  came  within  her  range  of  observation;  the  bed 
against  the  wall  below  took  up  most  of  the  remaining 
third.  Holding  the  Blessed  Mary  fast  in  her  arms, 
Biddy  made,  first,  her  ocular  examination  of  the  prem 
ises  ;  and  then,  applying  the  second  feature  of  her  face 
to  the  chink,  would  press  into  inquisitorial  service  a 
second  sense.  Usually,  she  smelt  gin;  and  for  its 
being  only  that,  and  not  fire,  she  would  thank  the 
Holy  Mother,  and  hang  her  reverently  up  again,  and 
so  betake  herself  content  to  bed. 

A  desolate  room,  a  worse  than  desolate  man ;  these 
were  what  Biddy  Flynn  looked  down  upon,  amazedly, 
to-night. 

Ashes  upon  the  floor,  about  the  dead,  dirty  stove; 


228  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 


a  broken  bottle  on  the  hearth ;  a  pail  of  filthy  water, 
with  a  black  mop-rag  hanging  over  the  side,  conveying 
its  contents  by  a  slow  dribble  to  the  floor;  a  sloppy 
table,  with  a  crust  and  a  teacup  upon  it ;  these  visi 
ble  by  the  blaze  of  an  inch  of  candle,  standing  flat 
upon  the  brick  mantel,  without  a  stick.  By  the  mis 
erable  fireside,  the  man  who  had  come  home  across  the 
seas,  to  this ;  who  had  lighted  as  he  could  his  forsaken 
hearth,  and  sat  down  by  it,  gloomy  and  despairing; 
his  feet  among  the  ashes ;  ashes  of  shame,  also,  upon 
his  bent  head,  —  ashes  of  hopelessness  upon  his  heart. 

"Beast!"  he  muttered,  showing  his  white  teeth, 
set  with  passion,  and  clenching  tighter  the  closed  fists 
between  which  he  leaned  his  face,  and  sent  forth  his 
compressed  speech.  "And  this  stands  between  me 
and  the  chance  of  anything  better  on  God's  earth! 
Dam-nation !  " 

Biddy  Flynn  shrunk  back ;  she  had  no  business  with 
this,  the  horror  of  it  was  too  sacred ;  she  hung  up  the 
Blessed  Mary  with  trembling  hands,  and  prayed  that 
glorified  Womanhood,  in  her  ignorant  way,  for  mercy 
on  what  womanhood  debased  had  crushed  and  mad 
dened. 

In  a  little  while  she  heard  his  chair  pushed  back, 
and  his  step  going  out  toward  the  door  at  the  back, 
that  opened  upon  a  narrow  alley.  He  might  have 
stayed  there,  waiting,  or  he  might  have  gone  away ; 
she  could  not  tell.  She  listened  awhile,  in  fear,  for 
what  sounds  might  come  back  into  that  next  room, 
but,  hearing  nothing,  by  and  by  she  fell  asleep. 

It  was  going  on  to  eleven  o'clock  when  Susan  Black- 
mere  turned  her  unsteady  steps  into  the  alley.  She 
put  her  hands  out,  reaching  the  wall  on  either  side, 
supporting  herself  so,  and  feeling  her  dark  way.  A 
person  looking  in  from  the  street  would  have  distin 
guished  nothing  in  the  gloom.  If  Susan  Blackmere, 


BIDDY  FLYNN  AND  HER  NEIGHBORS.    229 

though,  had  but  turned  for  a  moment  and  looked  out 
ward,  she  might  have  seen,  against  the  light  of  the 
entrance,  the  shadow  of  a  something  that  came  silently 
behind  her.  She  was  safe  not  to  turn,  however,  grop 
ing  her  way  so,  at  least  until  she  came  to  the  end. 
When  she  stopped  there  at  the  house  door,  the  figure 
behind  her  stopped,  and  crouched  down  low,  almost 
prostrate,  like  a  dog,  against  the  farther  wall. 

She  passed  in  and  shut  the  door.  There  was  no 
lock  upon  it ;  the  children  had  pulled  out  an  old  bolt 
and  lost  it,  long  ago;  but  the  tenants  locked  their 
separate  rooms  at  night,  and  it  was  no  matter.  It 
was  Susan  Blackmere's  own  affair,  whether  she  remem 
bered  to  fasten  her  door  or  not.  As  often  as  not,  it 
was  left  as  she  left  it  now. 

She  stumbled  in,  over  the  pail,  with  a  snarl  and  a 
curse.  She  felt  toward  the  mantel,  and  searched  for 
a  match  and  the  candle-end.  This  last  was  burned 
down  and  gone.  She  snarled  and  cursed  again,  and 
put  her  hand  in  her  pocket  and  brought  forth  another. 
Then  the  match  flickered  through  the  darkness,  and 
the  flame  fastened  itself  to  the  bit  of  wick,  and  the 
small,  steady  light  showed,  presently,  the  whole 
wretched,  squalid  place  again,  —  showed  it  to  two  eyes 
that  glared  in  at  the  window. 

"  Treed,  —  by  G— !     Now  we  '11  see  who  '11  blab !  " 

And  the  figure  crouched  itself  again  and  waited. 

What  it  was  that  waked  Biddy  Flynn,  when  she 
had  been  asleep  an  hour  or  thereabout,  she  could  never 
distinctly  tell. 

A  dull  blow,  or  a  fall,  and  a  strange  sound  of  some 
thing  crushed,  — then  two  or  three  rapid  steps,  — • 
whether  she  had  dreamed  or  heard  these,  in  her  com 
ing  consciousness,  she  started  upright  in  her  bed,  and 
tried  to  comprehend. 


230  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

Dead  silence,  now.  But  something  awful  in  the 
silence.  A  sudden  horror  in  the  air  that  seized  her 
in  every  nerve. 

Biddy  crossed  herself  and  listened,  motionless. 

Still  no  further  sound. 

"Was  it  a  bad  dhrame,  I  wonder,  or  the  bit  of 
herrin'  wid  me  supper  ?  Holy  Mother !  but  I  've  a 
strange  feel,  the  night !  " 

It  might  not  have  been  five  minutes,  or  it  might 
xiave  been  fifteen,  that  Biddy  sat  there  still,  with 
•shortened  breath  and  strained  sense;  but  she  calmed 
*  little,  at  last,  her  muscles  relaxed,  she  took  a  fuller 
respiration,  and  was  about  to  lie  back  upon  her  pillow, 
when  there  came  a  sound  from  just  beyond  the  slight 
partition,  —a  faint,  long,  gasping,  gurgling  moan, 
like  nothing  but  some  creature  dying  in  its  blood. 

"Ooh!  Ahl  the  saints!  What  is  it?  "  she  cried, 
and  clapped  her  hands  upon  her  ears,  in  a  panic  of 
ghastly  apprehension. 

For  minutes  more  she  cowered  and  quivered  in  an 
ignorant  terror ;  fearful  to  move,  fearful  to  stay  where 
she  was. 

Then  she  slid  down  out  of  her  bed,  and,  gathering 
up  her  shawl,  which  served  her  for  an  extra  coverlet 
in  the  cold  nights,  she  wrapped  herself  about  with  it, 
and  crept  toward  her  door. 

This  opened  on  the  side  of  the  room  farthest  from 
the  Blackmeres,  and  directly  at  the  foot  of  the  broad 
old  staircase,  which  ran  up  toward  the  back,  and  ended 
at  Luke  Dolan's  door. 

"Betsy  Dolan!  Luke!  Luke!  Are  ye  there  at 
ahl  ?  "  came  in  a  hoarse,  gusty  whisper  through  the 
keyhole ;  and  the  door  was  shaken,  as  if  the  wind  had 
got  in,  and  clattered  it. 

But  the  stout  carpenter  and  his  tired  wife  slept 
sound. 


BIDDY  FLYNN  AND  HEE  NEIGHBORS.    231 

The  call  came  louder,  then. 

"Arrah,  darlint,  waken,  for  the  love  of  Heaven! 
Luke  Dolan!  Betsy!  " 

And  Betsy  heard,  at  last. 

"Whisht!  don't  rise  the  childher!  What  is  it, 
sure  ?  "  whispered  Mistress  Dolan,  opening  the  door. 

Biddy  waited  for  no  word  or  ceremony,  but  pressed 
in. 

"The  Blessed  Lord  knows  what  it  is!  It's  a  fit 
or  a  murdher,  down  below,  in  Blackmere's!  Mak' 
hashte,  and  come  down  wid  yees,  for  it 's  feared  I  am 
of  me  life,  there,  me  lane !  " 

A  head  came  out  at  the  opposite  door,  at  this ;  and 
with  the  multiplied  voices,  and  the  opening  and  shut 
ting,  the  alarm  was  spread,  till  the  whole  floor  was 
roused.  There  was  a  striking  of  lights,  —  a  hustling 
into  clothes,  —  a  hurrying  down  the  stairs ;  and,  pres 
ently,  into  the  dank,  cheerless  room  where  Ned  Black- 
mere  had  sat  brooding  alone,  three  hours  ago,  huddled 
a  crowd  of  housemates,  eager  with  fear  and  curiosity. 

"  Stand  back,  all  of  ye !  "  said  Luke  Dolan,  going 
first,  and  looking  upon  the  bed.  "There  's  wurruk 
here  for  the  cur'ner,  — an'  the  Lord  be  gracious  to  us 
all!" 

It  was  the  end  of  the  dark  thread  that  only  one 
memory  could  have  traced.  And  of  the  last  hours 
through  which  it  wound,  there  were  no  lips  now  to 
speak. 

There  was  only  a  dead  woman  lying  there  across  the 
bed,  face  down;  beaten  in  among  the  clothes,  blood 
welling  from  among  the  matted  hair;  beside  her,  the 
rough,  stained,  wedge-shaped  billet  of  firewood  that, 
in  some  human  hand,  had  done  the  deed. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE    SILENT    SIN. 

MR.  GAIR  went  down  to  Selport  to  look  after  his 
brig,  and  his  child.  People  drop  all  to  attend  the 
summons,  when  message  comes  that  a  kinsman  lies  in 
danger  of  death;  nothing  then  is  of  any  weight  in 
comparison ;  but  if  death  be  long  in  coming,  or  hold 
off,  uncertain,  affairs  become  peremptory  again.  If 
any  change  occur,  let  them  know.  Mr.  Gair  was  to  be 
thus  apprised.  It  suggested  itself  to  Jane,  —  in  that 
underflow  of  thought  that  winds  on,  subtilely,  among 
anxieties  and  emotions,  strangely  untouched  of  either, 
—  that  this  might  be  convenient,  "  if  anything  should 
happen."  She  never  could  have  anything  to  do  with 
that  dreadful  milliner  at  the  Bridge. 

Friday  and  Saturday  were  quiet,  easy  days ;  no  alter 
ation.  The  doctor  had  Gershom  in,  and  talked  with 
him  at  intervals.  He  comforted  and  strengthened 
him,  concerning  what  he  had  done.  "All  would  turn 
out  for  the  best.  If  he,  the  doctor,  could  have  had 
his  health,  and  worked  on  a  little  longer,  he  might 
have  preferred  his  own  plan ;  but  now  he  was  quite 
content.  People  would  not  wait  for  a  boy  to  go  and 
get  his  learning.  -Sickness  came  every  day;  they 
looked  for  a  ready-made  wisdom  to  step  in;  ready- 
made  gray  hairs,  if  they  could  get  them." 

"Put  your  whole  might  into  it  now,  Gershom,  and 
make  a  man  of  yourself.  Think  of  your  mother; 
think  of  your  God,  boy !  " 

Between  Saturday  night  and  Sunday  morning  came 
the  beginning  of  what  they  had  feared.  The  doctor 


THE  SILENT  SIN.  233 

himself  had  felt  sure  of  it.  A  relapse.  All  day  Sun 
day  the  good  man  struggled  painfully  with  disease. 
On  Monday  the  word  went  down  for  Mr.  Gair  and 
Say. 

God's  word  came  down  also  into  that  still  sick-room, 
calling  a  soul  back  to  himself. 

Before  Tuesday  night,  when  the  stage  came  in  at  the 
Bridge  and  Gershom  drove  to  meet  it,  all  was  over. 

It  had  been  a  slow,  painful  giving- way  of  nature. 
A  laboring  and  failing  breath,  hour  after  hour,  till 
the  breath  went  forth,  at  last,  and  was  never  drawn 
again.  They  sat  by  and  watched,  with  grieved  hearts 
and  seldom  speech. 

There  was  no  set  leave-taking.  There  was  no  need. 
There  had  hardly  ever  been  any  word,  that  either 
could  remember,  of  the  good  man  going  away  from 
among  them  now,  that,  for  its  truth,  or  kindliness,  or 
cheer,  or  simple,  holy  trust,  might  not  fitly  have  been 
cherished  by  them  as  his  last. 

"Think  of  your  mother;   think  of  your  God,  boy!  " 

These  were  what  thrilled  solemnly  in  the  heart  of 
Gershom  Vorse,  as  nearly  the  last  he  spoke  to  him. 

They  sat  all  together  at  the  family  board  for  the 
first  time  since  the  doctor's  illness  had  gathered  them 
at  home,  at  that  still  breakfast  on  the  Wednesday 
morning.  The  first  coming  together  of  the  household 
in  its  old  routine,  after  a  blank  has  been  left  in  it. 
How  many  a  heart  has  felt  that  graveside-  solemnity ! 

"It" — the  funeral  —  was  to  be  on  Thursday. 
Mr.  Gair  could  not  leave  his  business  longer.  He 
would  come  up  again  next  week,  and  attend  to  any 
thing  that  they  might  need  him  for.  But  just  now  his 
presence  was  imperatively  required  in  Selport. 

"  With  all  the  rest, "  Mr.  Gair  said,  in  that  subdued 
tone  that  people  use  when  they  begin  to  speak  of  any 
outside  matter  in  a  house  of  death,  "there  has  been  a 


234  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

sad  piece  of  work  on  board  the  brig  since  she  came  in. 
That  English  fellow,  Gershom,  —  Ned  Blackmere,  — 
was  arrested  Friday  morning  for  the  murder  of  his 
wife.  It's  in  the  paper  here,"  and  he  drew  out  a 
Selport  Journal  from  his  coat  pocket. 

Gershom  Vorse,  startled  out  of  thoughts  that  no 
thing  less  than  a  shock  like  this  could  have  displaced, 
gazed  for  an  instant  in  the  speaker's  face,  as  unable  to 
take  in  the  meaning  of  his  words ;  then,  pushing  his 
chair  round  suddenly,  and  almost  springing  from  it, 
he  exclaimed :  — 

"  He  never  did  it  in  the  world,  sir !  "  After  an 
other  moment's  thought,  —  "He  couldn't  have  done 
it!  Why,  the  brig  only  got  in  on  Thursday  evening, 
and  he  was  on  board  all  night  with  me." 

"All  night?  You  both  went  ashore,  though?  The 
murder  took  place,  they  say,  between  half  past  ten 
and  eleven,  and  Blackmere  was  seen  there,  waiting  in 
his  wife's  room,  before  she  came  in.  The  best  we 
can  get  at  for  him  is,  that  he  was  on  board  during  the 
forepart  of  the  night,  and  on  deck  for  some  time 
toward  midnight.  Buxton's  men  can  testify  to  that 
much,  but  they  can't  swear  to  the  exact  time  he  came 
on  board.  And  half  an  hour  would  make  all  the  differ 
ence." 

"It  was  n't  fifteen  minutes,  sir,  after  the  clock 
struck  ten,  when  he  came  back  on  board !  " 

"Can  you  swear  to  that,  Gershom?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"You  may  do  something  for  him,  then.  At  any 
rate,  you  ought  to  be  on  hand  week  after  next,  when 
the  case  comes  up." 

No  wonder,  with  this  double  weight  of  thought  upon 
him,  that  Gershom  was  silent,  and  sought  to  be  alone 
as  far  as  possible  all  that  day.  In  all  this  time,  be 
yond  the  barest  greeting  at  first  seeing  her,  he  had 


THE  SILENT  SIN.  235 

held  no  communication  with  Mrs.  Gair.  The  circum 
stances  under  which  they  met  made  such  avoidance 
easy.  There  had  been  little  talk  between  any  in  that 
sad  house,  throughout  those  hours  of  watching  and  of 
grief. 

Mrs.  Vorse  was  busy  with  necessary  cares.  Miss 
Millet,  from  the  Bridge,  was  upstairs  with  the  other 
sisters,  "making  mourning."  Gershom  must  get  out 
of  the  way  of  all  this.  He  could  not  have  his  mother 
to  himself.  He  spent  nearly  all  his  time  in  the  bay  of 
the  old  barn,  lying  there  alone  in  the  hay,  in  the  warm 
south  window,  where  he  had  used  to  betake  himself  in 
the  happy  days  that  seemed  already  so  long  ago,  when 
he  was  in  heart  and  truth  but  a  boy,  dreaming  boy- 
dreams  of  the  world  and  of  rinding  his  way  out  into  it ; 
feeling  now  thrust  out,  with  the  door  of  his  youth  shut 
suddenly  behind  him. 

It  all  revolved  itself  over  and  over  in  his  mind  as 
he  lay  here.  This  terrible  change,  this  loss  that 
made  him,  for  the  first  time,  absolutely  fatherless; 
the  thought  of  what  he  should  do  with  his  mother; 
that  she  must  not  stay  here  now ;  that  he  would  take 
her  away,  somewhere,  and  have  her  all  for  his  own,  — 
his  own  care,  his  one  comfort.  .  Of  Aunt  Jane,  that 
he  could  never,  would  never,  have  aught  to  do  with 
her  again.  The  guilt  of  his  grandfather's  death,  if  it 
lay  at  any  human  door,  lay  at  hers.  Gershom  had  too 
much  of  his  mother's  clear,  discerning  justice  not  to 
see  this,  and  to  cease  reproaching  himself  weakly  or 
unduly.  He  knew  he  would  have  come,  laying  aside 
all  plan  and  preference  of  his  own,  at  that  summons 
which  she  had  withheld  from  him.  He  was  indignant, 
to  the  very  depths  of  his  nature,  at  this  wrong  that 
she  had  done  them  all ;  but  he  laid  the  wrong  where  it 
belonged.  He  would  torture  himself  no  more  with 
self -upbraiding.  He  would  take  every  loving,  gener- 


236  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

ous  word  that  his  grandfather  had  said,  home  into  his 
heart  and  let  it  comfort  him.  Between  them  there 
had  been  truth  and  peace  to  the  last.  Between  them 
there  should  only  lie  a  peaceful  memory. 

He  said  all  this  to  himself,  not  for  self-solace  only, 
but  for  honesty  and  justice.  Yet  he  had  to  say  it 
again  and  again.  The  cruel  bitterness  would  come  up. 
If  he  had  only  done  his  grandfather's  bidding!  If  he 
had  only  never  let  that  sea-fever  get  possession  of  him ! 
If  he  had  only  been  determined,  even,  not  to  go  with 
out  a  coming  home  first !  He  might  be  strong  enough 
and  just  enough  not  to  torment  himself  morbidly,  but 
this  dreg  of  reproach  would  always  lie  in  his  conscience. 
Jane  Gair  had  put  this  unsilenced,  haunting  "If"  of 
fruitless  regret  into  a  young  life  that  had  never  known 
it  before ;  that  henceforth  should  never  be  able  wholly 
to  cast  it  out. 

And  Ned  Blackmere!  This  story,  so  sudden  and 
awful,  that  he  could  hardly  credit  or  conceive  it  clearly ; 
this  horrible  doubt,  this  deadly  suspicion,  this  mortal 
danger  that  hung  over  the  man,  who,  in  those  very 
hours  when  it  had  been  bearing  down  upon  him,  had 
been  sleeping  at  his  side,  his  sole  companion!  This 
terrible  investigation,  with  which  Gershom,  by  the 
evidence  that  he  could  bring,  would  have  to  do  !  Truly, 
tremendous  realities  had  swooped  down,  all  at  once, 
among  his  boy  dreams,  and  scattered  them  forever ! 

Say  came  and  found  him,  at  last.  She  had  guessed 
where  he  might  be,  but  she  had  not  dared  to  come, 
till  the  red,  level  light  of  the  setting  sun  streamed  over 
the  snow,  and  the  tea-table  stood  ready,  and  she  had 
heard  Aunt  Prue  asking  for  him.  Then  she  put  on 
her  India-rubber  shoes  and  flung  her  little  Scotch  shawl 
over  her  head,  and  came  to  fetch  him. 

"  Gershie !  "  she  called  timidly,  at  the  foot  of  the 
granary  stairs. 


THE  SILENT  SIN.  237 

"  Well  ?  "  answered  Gershom,  from  above,  in  the 
hay. 

"Tea  's  ready,  and  Aunt  Prue  wants  you." 

No  answer. 

"  May  I  come  up  ?  " 

"I  'm  coming  down  in  a  minute." 

Not  permission,  clearly.  Neither  dismissal,  quite. 
Say  gathered  the  little  shawl  tighter  across  her  shoul 
ders,  and  sat  down  on  the  lowest  step.  In  a  minute 
Gershom  came. 

It  was  a  pale,  sad  little  face  —  pale  with  the  win 
ter  chill,  sad  with  a  look  of  some  soul-summer  gone  out 
of  it  already  —  that  turned  itself  up  to  his  as  he  came 
down.  There  were  tears,  too,  standing  in  the  patient 
eyes. 

"Oh,  Gershie!"  she  said  touchingly,  putting  out 
her  hand  for  his,  "the  old,  good  times  are  all  gone. 
I  don't  think  there  's  ever  going  to  be  any  Hilbury 
any  more !  " 

"Something  turns  up  and  sets  'em  adrift,  and  what 
becomes  of  your  home  then  ?  " 

Those  bitter  words  of  Old  Barnacle  repeated  them 
selves  to  Gershom 's  thought,  and  echoed  the  plaint  of 
the  child. 

"Forme, — I  suppose  not,"  he  said.  "I've  got 
to  go  out  into  the  world  and  get  my  living.  I  can't 
be  a  boy  any  longer.  I  'm  a  man,  Say.  But  you  '11 
come  here,  summers,  the  same  as  ever.  Aunt  Joanna 
and  Aunt  Rebecca  will  be  here.  You  '11  come." 

"No,  I  shan't,"  said  Say,  in  a  voice  that  trembled. 
"Mother  won't  want  to  come  here,  always,  now.  She 
said  so  this  morning,  when  Aunt  Rebecca  spoke  about 
the  summer.  I  know  she  did  n't  want  much  to  come, 
last  time.  She  '11  go  to  the  Springs,  now,  or  the  sea 
shore.  That  'swhat  she  wanted,  only  she  said  grandpa 
would  be  disappointed.  And  they  said  something  else, 


238  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

about  there  being  no  knowing  what  would  be  done,  now, 
with  the  farm.  And  besides, "  the  words  quivered  out 
painfully,  "it  wouldn't  be  anything  to  come  if  you 
were  n't  here." 

Gershom  had  been  the  centre  of  all  Say's  joys,  in 
all  the  summer  times  that  she  could  remember.  Now, 
she  was  losing  him.  It  is  one  of  the  gulfs  that  open 
at  our  feet  in  life,  when  one  who  has  been  dear  and 
close  —  a  sharer  in  the  same  thoughts,  and  wishes,  and 
pleasures  —  springs  suddenly,  as  it  seems,  away  from 
our  side,  out  of  our  sphere  into  another,  that  lies  ready 
for  him  and  not  for  us.  When  the  brother  goes  out 

O 

of  his  childhood  and  his  home  into  manhood  and  the 
wide  world,  leaving  the  sister  behind  in  her  home  and 
her  childhood  still,  whence  the  light  of  both  has  van 
ished.  When,  of  the  sisters  who  have  slept  and  played 
and  learned  together,  one  goes  forth  to  new  loves  and 
duties  and  companionships,  and  the  other  stays  behind, 
in  the  same  accustomed  place,  that  yet  can  never  be 
the  same  again.  Ah !  it  is  not  the  grave  only  which 
yawns  between  lives  of  which  the  one  is  taken,  —  on, 
up,  —  the  other  left,  drearily  waiting,  in  a  world 
whose  meaning  is  all  changed,  whose  very  vital  springs 
seem  deadened. 

Say  saw  this  fissure  widening  at  her  feet,  between 
herself  and  Gershom  Vorse ;  and  her  child-heart  found 
it  hard  to  bear. 

"I  've  got  to  be  a  little  girl  ever  so  many  years 
more !  "  she  said  piteously. 

Gershom  would  have  been  tender  with  her,  but  that 
he  hardened  so  against  her  mother. 

"You  '11  grow  fast  enough,"  he  said.  "And  you  '11 
forget  all  about  Hilbury.  You  '11  go  to  the  Springs 
and  the  seashore;  and  by  and  by  you'll  like  that 
best." 

They  were  walking  up,  slowly,  along  the  drive.    Say 


THE  SILENT  SIN.  239 

stopped,  and  let  fall  Gershom's  hand,  and  sat  herself 
down  on  the  rim  of  the  great  trough  determinedly,  as 
if  she  would  not  take  another  step  in  that  life  that  was 
leading  her  on,  away  from  all  that  she  loved  best. 

"  I  never  shall,  in  all  the  world !  "  she  cried  pas 
sionately.  "I  wish  I  could  stop  everything  and  every 
body,  right  here,  and  not  let  'em  grow  any  older,  or 
do  anything  else !  " 

"You  can't, "  said  Gershom,  after  a  pause,  in  a  quiet 
tone,  and  waiting,  as  expecting  her  to  turn  rational 
a^ain  directly.  "We  've  got  to  keep  going  on.  And 
you  've  got  to  get  up  now  and  go  in  to  tea." 

He  set  the  palpable  necessity  of  things  square  before 
her,  as  it  is  the  way  of  man  to  do,  when  woman's 
nature  is  all  in  a  white  foam  of  tempestuous  revolt 
against  it. 

Then  she  burst  into  tears.  Gershom  walked  on, 
slowly.  He  knew  not  how  to  deal  with  this,  and  so 
he  let  it  alone.  Ah,  if  he  had  known  it,  that  was  hard 
dealing ! 

Say  flung  her  shawl  suddenly  over  head  and  face, 
and  rushed  blindly  on,  up,  and  into  the  house.  She 
vanished  up  the  end  staircase,  and  hid  herself  away  in 
the  old  clothes-room. 

Rebecca  went  to  look  for  her  presently,  and  found 
her  there  in  an  abandonment  of  tears.  She  sat  down 
by  her,  on  the  pile  of  quilts  and  pillows,  and  put  her 
arm  around  her  gently,  and  waited  till  she  should  look 
up.  Say,  though  she  never  moved,  knew  by  the  soft 
touch  who  it  was.  So  she  sobbed  on;  but  there  came 
a  tenderer  sound  into  the  grief,  at  first  so  bitter  and 
so  sharp.  By  and  by  she  rested;  only  a  long-drawn 
quiver  now  and  then.  Rebecca  drew  her  up  against 
her  shoulder,  saying,  in  her  old  way,  as  she  had  said 
years  ago,  when  she  found  the  child  sitting  grieving 
in  disgrace  upon  the  door-stone,  "  What  is  it,  Say  ?  " 


240  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

"It's  all  so  hard!"  was  Say's  strangely  compre 
hensive  answer. 

"What,  Say?  "  asked  the  same  soft  tone. 

"Things  that  happen.  People  go  off,  --—and  they 
don't  care;  and  you  've  got  to  keep  on;  and  you  can't 
stop  anything." 

Only  a  broken  thread  in  her  own  life,  that  Rebecca 
could  lay  her  thought  back  upon,  could  have  given  her 
a  clew  to  apprehend  this  first  dreariness  of  feeling  that 
uttered  itself  in  Say's  incoherent  words. 

"Yes.  Things  are  hard,  sometimes.  And  we 
must  live  on,  and  bear  God's  will.  Because,  He 
makes  a  plan  for  us ;  and  there  will  be  always  some 
thing  coming;  we  can't  tell,  day  by  day,  what  it  may 
be ;  only  He  never  forgets  us,  or  leaves  anything  out ; 
and  by  and  by  "  — 

"  By  and  by  —  what  ?  "  asked  Say,  after  some  sec 
onds'  pause. 

"  Shall  I  show  you,  Say  ?  "  There  was  a  calm, 
holy  light  on  Aunt  Rebecca's  face,  as  she  stood  up 
and  held  her  hand  out  to  the  child. 

Say  had  a  feeling  of  what  it  was  that  she  would 
show  her.  She  was  not  afraid.  She  got  up  and  gave 
her  hand,  and  let  herself  be  led  away.  Across  the 
great  kitchen-chamber,  —  Rebecca  taking  up  the  can 
dle  she  had  left  there,  —  and  along  the  entry  beyond, 
to  where  a  door  opened  into  the  room  Say  had  not 
entered  since  she  came. 

Rebecca  set  the  light  upon  the  mantel,  and  took 
her  to  the  bedside.  She  drew  back  a  closed  curtain, 
and  laid  off  a  linen  handkerchief  from  the  pillow. 

There  was  none  of  the  grim  rigidness  about  the  bed 
or  room  that  told  of  death,  and  death  only.  Rebecca 
would  not  have  the  form  so  tenderly  cared  for  but  a 
few  hours  before,  left  here,  stark  in  the  winter's  cold, 
with  only  the  grave-robing  and  the  ghastly  white  sheet 


THE  SILENT  SIN.  241 

for  covering.  There  was  a  fresh,  soft  coverlet  spread 
over  all,  and  the  sheet  turned  back  upon  it,  as  a  couch 
might  have  been  made  up  for  slumber.  The  drapery- 
hung  close  about  the  foot. 

Say  saw  the  same  dear  face,  —  the  white  hair  softly 
floating  back  from  the  temples ;  a  beautiful  quietness 
upon  it,  —  and  that  was  all. 

"He  has  lived  seventy-eight  years,  Say.  Seven 
times  as  long  as  you.  He  was  glad  with  all  God  gave 
him,  and  he  bore  every  trouble  that  He  sent.  Now, 
this  is  what  has  come.  A  beautiful  rest;  and  a  wak 
ing  that  we  cannot  know  of,  into  great  joy. 

"Do  you  remember  the  old  dream  you  used  to  tell 
me  of?  When  you  used  to  think  you  had  got  lost, 
away  from  home,  and  it  grew  dark  and  cold;  and 
you  were  all  alone  on  the  roadside,  in  a  strange  place  ? 
And  how  you  would  think  to  yourself,  then,  in  your 
dream,  — '  I  will  just  lie  down,  right  here,  and  go  to 
sleep ;  and  I  shall  wake  in  my  own  home  again  ?  ' 
That  is  the  way  God  takes  us  home  to  Him.  He 
sends  us  such  a  sleep  as  this ;  and  out  of  it  we  wake, 
presently,  in  heaven !  It  will  all  be  right  there,  Say ! 
It  is  all  working  for  it,  here." 

Say  held  her  aunt's  hand  tight,  and  spoke  not  a 
word,  but  her  face  changed  from  its  troubled  look  to  a 
still  brightness  like  the  faces,  the  living  and  the  dead, 
she  looked  upon.  And  so  they  drew  the  curtains 
again,  and  took  the  candle  and  went  out  together. 

"Only,"  said  Say  timidly,  stopping  presently, 
when  they  had  got  away  into  another  room,  and  let 
ting  the  words  come  with  a  long  sigh,  —  "I  should 
like  to  go  to  heaven  from  Hilbury,  too." 

Rebecca  sighed  softly,  also,  and  did  not  speak.  She 
knew  how  gladly  many  a  heart  would  choose  so  its 
place  on  earth  to  go  to  heaven  from.  She  thought 
how  much  might  lie  for  the  child  in  the  years  between 
these  homes. 


242  THE  GAYWOBTHYS. 

But  Say  was  comforted. 

Prue  came  to  Mr.  Gair  on  Thursday,  when  the 
funeral  was  over. 

"Will  you  keep  these  till  you  come  back,  or  will 
you  look  to-night  for  any  papers  that  he  may  have 
left?"  She  gave  him,  as  she  spoke,  the  doctor's 
keys. 

There  was  only  the  little  room  to  look  in.  The 
merchant's  time  was  valuable.  He  had  better  do  at 
once,  perhaps,  in  these  few  hours  when  he  could  do 
nothing  else,  what  might  take  him  a  half  day  to  do  on 
his  return. 

So  he  took  the  keys  and  turned  toward  the  study. 

"Call  the  others,  and  come  in  here  with  me,  all  of 
you,"  he  said. 

Jane  Gair  had  it  all  upon  her  conscience,  now. 
Now,  Satan  came  and  stood  straight  before  her,  say 
ing,  Choose ! 

Of  two  direct  ways?  No.  The  devil  never  does 
that.  There  was  only  one  direct  way:  to  tell  all  she 
knew,  if  need  be;  to  see,  at  any  rate,  that  hidden 
paper  brought  to  light.  But  there  was  a  way,  seem 
ingly  indirect ;  we  never  get  a  look  from  end  to  end, 
right  down  the  evil  path.  She  would  wait,  a  few 
moments,  at  least;  there  might  be  something  else  to 
indicate;  it  might  be,  after  all,  that  her  father  had 
changed  his  mind,  and  destroyed  the  writing.  She 
knew  nothing  to  the  contrary.  She  would  cling,  still, 
to  her  "expectant"  system.  Ah!  this  was  the  very 
way  the  devil  wanted  her  to  choose ! 

Dr.  Gay  worthy  had  not  died  without  a  sign.  He 
had  implied,  in  his  short  talks  with  Prue  and  Ger- 
shom,  that  he  had  cared  for  them ;  how,  or  how  far, 
they  had  no  idea.  Gershom,  certainly,  expected  little. 

"Think  of  your  mother!  "  his  grandfather  had  said; 
he  had  said,  also,  "  Think  of  your  God !  "  For  aim 


THE  SILENT  SIN.  243 

and  motive;  for  holy  incitement  and  strength.  But 
the  boy  had  taken  his  mother,  as  his  legacy,  from  the 
old  man's  hands;  to  care  for  her,  — to  labor  for  her. 
That  was  his  one  resolve  now.  He  had  little  thought 
of  possible  money  or  land. 

To  one  other  the  doctor  had  spoken.  As  Jane  sat 
by  him  in  her  evening  watch,  on  Saturday,  he  had, 
called  her  suddenly,  —  "  Daughter !  "  and  Jane  had 
bent  to  catch  his  words. 

"I  have  been  easier  to-day;  but  I  am  not  deceived; 
to-morrow  I  may  be  worse  again.  If  I  die,  Jane,  — • 
when  I  die,  I  think  my  affairs  will  all  be  found  in 
order.  There  will  be  enough  for  all,  —  for  all. " 

"Don't,  father!"  Jane  had  cried,  partly  from  a 
genuine  shrinking  impulse,  — for  she  had  a  daughter's 
natural  love  somewhere  in  that  selfish  heart  of  hers, 
—  and  partly  from  a  dread  of  knowledge  too  solemnly 
imparted. 

"I  won't  distress  you,  child.  When  the  time 
comes,  you  will  find  it  written.  I  put  it  in  "  —  His 
cough  interrupted  him,  —  a  long  paroxysm ;  and  he 
lay  back  exhausted  after  it. 

Jane  gave  him  his  gum-arabic  water,  and  wiped  his 
lips,  and  the  moisture  from  his  pale  forehead,  and 
then  busied  herself  across  the  room,  restoring  the  glass 
to  its  place,  examining  what  was  left  in  the  little 
pitcher  from  which  she  had  filled  it,  and  rearranging 
spoons  and  vials. 

Then  she  turned  toward  the  bed  again.  He  raised 
his  finger  for  her  to  come  near ;  he  pointed  toward  his 
dressing-glass,  beside  which  hung  his  keys,  which  Prue 
had  put  upon  a  nail  there.  It  was  not  possible  to 
misunderstand.  Jane  brought  them.  Her  father  did 
not  speak,  he  had  hardly  strength  for  that;  and  he 
feared  to  provoke  the  cough  again;  but  he  held  the 
bunch  in  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  selected  one, 


244  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

laying  his  finger  on  it,  and  looking  up,  while  his  lips 
and  tongue  just  formed  the  syllable  "There." 

And  Jane  bent  her  head  assentingly. 

After  that  he  seemed  to  trouble  himself  no  further. 
He  had  left  the  clew  to  all  in  the  hands  of  his  eldest 
child. 
.    And  up  to  this  moment,  Jane  had  held  her  peace. 

"Do  any  of  you  know  —  has  the  doctor  spoken  to 
any  of  you  —  of  any  will  or  writing  ?  "  Mr.  Gair 
asked  this  after  they  had  all  come  into  the  little  room 
together. 

Jane  waited  a  half  minute  or  more.  Nobody  spoke. 
Then  she  moved  to  her  husband's  side,  and  answered 
him. 

"He  began  to  say  something  to  me  last  Saturday 
evening ;  but  a  fit  of  coughing  came  on.  He  only  said 
we  should  find  it  written.  And  he  pointed  to  his  keys, 
and  I  brought  them;  and  he  laid  his  finger  on  this." 
She  took  the  keys  from  Reuben's  hand  as  she  spoke, 
and  separated  that  belonging  to  the  panel  cupboard. 

Had  she  not  fulfilled  her  trust?  I  believe  she 
thought  so.  She  sat  down,  and  waited  with  the  rest, 
for  whatever  should  be  found. 

And  in  this  very  moment  her   punishment   began 
Her  unlawful  knowledge  tormented  her.     She  had  told 
truly  all  she  had  been  supposed  to  know.      They  might 
search,  —  they  might  find  all . 

But  if  not  ?  Then  it  would  have  been  better  that 
she  had  never  looked  or  listened.  Why  had  she 
looked  or  listened?  Only  to  lay  this  upon  herself. 
She  must  publish  herself  a  spy,  or  be  a  guiltier  thing. 
She  almost  wished  they  might  discover  all.  If  she 
only  had  never  meddled  foolishly,  all  might  have  gone 
well.  She  could  wish  that  this  had  been;  she  could 
have  been  satisfied  to  kill  this  memory  of  hers,  if  that 
Vrere  possible,  and  that  they  should  all  together,  igno- 


THE  SILENT  SIN.  245 

rantly,  defraud  the  widow  and  her  son.  With  a  secret 
vehemence  of  regret,  she  deplored  that  this  should  not 
have  happened.  Her  heart-desire  was  evil,  her  con 
science-scruple  was  only  weak. 

Reuben  Gair  stood  up  on  the  very  high-backed  ma 
hogany  chair,  by  which  his  wife  had  climbed  that  sum 
mer  afternoon  last  year,  and  rolled  the  panel  back. 

"Why,  mother!"  whispered  Say,  "that's  the 
earthquake !  " 

Jane  Gair  clutched  her  child's  hand,  with  a  grasp 
that  pained  her,  enforcing  silence.  Say  was  ashamed. 
It  had  not  been  a  proper  time  to  speak  so.  This  was 
what  she  thought.  Years  afterward,  she  remembered 
it  with  a  different  thought,  —  a  hotter  shame. 

Prudence  Vorse  was  reminded  of  the  day  when  she 
had  found  her  step-sister  searching  there.  She  looked 
straight  over  at  Jane,  suddenly,  with  her  strong,  dis 
cerning  eye.  The  color  mounted  visibly  in  Jane's 
face.  Prue  had  her  own  thought,  instantly.  "What 
ever  is  there,  she  knows  it." 

Mr.  Gair  took  down  the  leather  wallet  and  the  let 
ter-case. 

"It  must  be  in  one  of  these,"  said  he.  And  he 
came  down,  and  laid  them  on  the  table,  and,  drawing 
up  a  chair,  sat  down  to  open  them,  deliberately. 

What  could  Jane  do  ?  She  had  placed  herself  quite 
upon  the  other  side  the  room.  She  could  not  rush 
and  seize  it  from  his  hand,  and  with  her  last  impulse 
of  truth,  disclose  its  secret  contents.  If  it  could  have 
been  done  naturally,  and  by  apparent  accident,  she 
thought  at  that  instant  that  she  would  have  revealed 
it  all.  But  Satan  had  her,  and  he  held  her  fast ;  she 
waited  still.  It  must  be  all  chance,  now,  whether 
Reuben  found  it  or  not.  Did  she  forget  the  little, 
little  pressure  of  her  finger,  that  day  last  year?  It 
would  not  now  be  quite  so  easily  found  as  then.  It 


246  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

was  thrust  smoothly  and  tightly  down,  along  the  verj 
bottom  of  the  pocket.  It  would  scarcely  even  crackle, 
now. 

But  it  might  be  nothing  after  all.  How  should  she 
know  what  possibly  in  all  those  years,  during  which 
the  old  case  had  been  used,  had  found  its  way  there, 
and  lain  perhaps  a  lifetime  ? 

It  was  not  her  business  to  imagine.  Her  father 
could  well  care  for  his  affairs.  There  was  the  one 
paper,  carefully  preserved.  The  other  had,  most 
likely,  been  removed,  destroyed.  He  might  have  writ 
ten  and  revoked  a  dozen  such. 

She  kept  saying  this,  within  herself,  over  and  over. 
She  looked  anxious  and  distraite. 

Prue  saw  the  look.  "There's  something  on  her 
mind,"  thought  she.  "Something  she's  keeping 
back. "  Prue  only  thought  of  something  more  the  doc 
tor  might  have  said.  She  never  dreamed  of  any  other 
concealment. 

Nobody  thought  of  anything  further  to  be  looked 
for,  when  Mr.  Gair  drew  from  the  under  pocket  of  the 
letter-case  the  folded  packet.  The  upper  half  was 
evidently  filled  with  old,  very  old  correspondence. 

"This  is  it,"  said  he,  and  read  aloud  the  super 
scription. 

"My  last  Will  and  Testament.      Jan.  1,  183-." 

"That  was  before  Ben  died,  wasn't  it?" 

"Just  after,"  replied  Jane  quickly.  "Ben  died  in 
November,  that  same  winter." 

Mr.  Gair  unfolded  it,  and  glanced  over  the  pages. 
Then  he  began  to  read. 

The  will  provided  for  them  all.  Jane  soothed  her 
conscience  with  this.  There  was  no  obvious  discrep 
ancy  here  with  what  her  father  had  said. 

"There  is  enough  for  all, — for  all. "  That  em 
phatic  repetition  had  rung  admonishingly  in  her  ears; 


THE  SILENT  SIN.  247 

and  if  this  instrument  had  done  absolutely  nothing  for 
Prudence  and  her  boy,  there  would  have  been  an  ob 
stinate  rough  spot  in  her  conscience,  that  the  smooth 
unction  of  false  plausibility  would  have  failed  to  cover. 
As  it  was,  she  sat  back  in  her  chair  and  breathed 
freer.  There  was  no  reason  to  force  her  to  acknow 
ledge  to  herself  that  this  could  not  be  all.  She  would 
not  suppose  it.  She  was  very  glad  she  had  never 
looked  any  further! 

By  this  time  she  had  wellnigh  persuaded  herself 
that  she  was  as  utterly  ignorant,  and  innocent  there 
fore,  as  any  of  the  rest. 

There  was  property  to  the  amount  of  upwards  of 
one  hundred  thousand  dollars. 

The  moneys  and  stocks  —  after  certain  legacies  — 
were  to  be  equally  divided  between  his  children. 
Certain  real  estate,  in  Winthorpe  and  Selport,  was 
apportioned,  —  a  share  to  each.  The  farm  and  home 
stead  were  to  remain  for  the  life  use  of  any  child  or 
children  who  should  continue  unmarried,  and  elect  to 
live  there.  Then  they  were  to  go  to  the  eldest  direct 
male  heir;  failing  males,  to  the  eldest  female. 

Of  the  legacies,  the  chief  was  five  thousand  dollars 
in  bank  stock  to  "Prudence  Vorse,  the  eldest  child  of 
my  late  dear  wife,  Rachel. "  There  were  five  hundred 
dollars  to  Serena  Brow.n;  or,  she  not  surviving,  to  her 
daughter,  Huldah. 

That  was  all.  The  paper  was  refolded,  and  laid 
back;  not  replaced  in  the  pocket,  only  between  the 
covers ;  and  Mr.  Gair  wound  the  green  ribbon  around 
the  whole,  and  tied  it  fast. 

Nothing  to  be  done,  at  this  moment.  Certainly 
nothing  to  be  said. 

They  all  rose,  silently,  as  Mr.  Gair  put  up  the  case 
into  the  cupboard,  rolled  the  door  back,  and  took  out 
the  key. 


248  THE  QAYWORTHYS. 

Prudence  looked  once  more  at  Jane.  The  face  she 
scrutinized  was  still  hardly  wholly  composed.  "She 
knows  more  yet.  She  hasn't  told  it  all.  There's 
something  lies  between  her  and  the  dead.  It  must  lie, 
then."  She  did  not  doubt  it  was  some  verbal  request 
in  behalf  of  Gershom ;  something  for  the  heirs  to  do, 
that  the  old  man  knew  his  will,  drawn  up  so  many 
years  ago,  before  the  boy  came  home  to  him  and  grew 
into  his  love,  had  not  contemplated.  For  herself,  it 
never  crossed  her  mind  that  there  might  be  more  in 
tended.  She  had  had,  all  this  time,  so  much!  His 
legacy  to  her  was  generous;  more,  by  its  whole 
amount,  than  she  could  have  claim  to  look  for. 

The  time  for  speaking  was  past.  Jane  stood  com 
mitted  to  her  sin.  And  yet  she  had  "done  nothing." 

The  next  day  she  went  down  to  Selport,  with  her 
husband  and  Say,  to  attend  to  her  own  household,  and 
fit  herself  out  with  "decent  black."  The  bonnet  con 
structed  by  Miss  Millet  she  would  send  back,  she  said, 
for  the  first  poor  soul  in  Hilbury  who  might  have  need 
of  such  a  thing. 

The  will  and  the  probable  plans  of  the  family  were 
discussed  in  Hilbury,  as  such  matters  are.  Of  course, 
there  were  many  who  "would  have  done  differently  in 
his  place." 

One  piece  of  superhuman  wisdom  is  always  expected 
of  a  man :  the  absolutely  just  and  judicious  disposition 
of  his  property.  One  thing  is,  of  necessity,  closely 
investigated,  as  soon  as  he  is  dead,  and  the  seal  set  so 
forever  on  his  works,  complete  or  incomplete,  as  he 
may  leave  them.  And  if  this  prove  to  have  been  in 
any  way  neglected  or  procrastinated,  or  left  imperfect, 
it  is  so  strange,  —  so  unaccountable !  Of  all  the  hun 
dreds  of  abortive  beginnings  and  intents  which  the 
most  methodical  life  may  have  numbered,  this  only 
comes  out  for  posthumous  criticism  and  wonder,  that 


THE  SILENT  SIN.  249 

it  was  not  done,  or  better  done.  The  testator,  one 
would  suppose,  ought  to  have  shown  forth  in  this  word 
that  should  be  spoken  as  from  beyond  the  grave,  an 
unearthly  perspicacity  and  foresight. 

"To  him  that  hath"  should  never  "be  given"  — 
overmuch.  There  should  have  been  a  prescience,  we 
should  almost  think,  of  who  should  survive  longest  and 
require  most;  and  apportionment  have  been  made  ac 
cordingly.  The  Hilbury  people  wondered  that  Jane 
Gair,  "rolling  in  money,"  her  husband  making  it 
"hand  over  hand,"  should  have  "come  in  for  just  as 
much  as  any  of  the  others."  They  wondered  that 
"  Widder  Vorse  had  n't  got  more  ;  she  'd  been  perfectly 
arduous  in  her  attention  to  the  old  man,  allers.'' 
They  wondered  that  "there  'd  never  been  a  codicil, 
nor  nothing,  to  that  air  old  will,  to  fix  things  a  little 
mite  straighter;  "  that  Gershom  Vorse,  whom  the 
doctor  always  "sot  by  so,"  had  n't  been  named  at  all. 
"He  'd  cut  himself  out,  though,  most  likely,  by  goin' 
off  as  he  did." 

So  they  talked  it  over,  and  settled  the  "whys  "  as 
well  as  they  could ;  meantime,  the  young  sisters  were 
seen  at  church  on  Sundays  in  the  dresses  and  bonnets 
Miss  Millet  had  made  for  them,  and  grieved  bitterly, 
in  the  quiet  of  their  home,  for  the  old  man  gone;  and 
Mrs.  Jane  Gair  busied  herself  among  crapes  and  bom 
bazines,  in  Selport,  and  took  off,  so,  the  first  keer 
edge  of  her  sorrow. 

"If  the  girls  want  me,"  said  Prudence,  talking 
with  her  son,  "I  shall  stay  here  till  spring  with  them, 
and  see  'em  settled;  and  then,  if  Jaazaniah  keeps  on 
failin',  I  shall  offer  to  go  and  stop  with  Wealthy 
Hoogs.  She  has  n't  got  a  being  in  the  world  to  help 
her." 

"That 's  just  what  I  should  like  best  for  you,  mo 
ther,"  answered  Gershom. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

GUILTY,     OR    NOT    GUILTY? 

NED  BLACKMERE  was  in  Selport  jail,  waiting  for 
the  court  to  meet,  when  his  case  should  come  up  before 
the  grand  jury  for  indictment  or  discharge. 

None  but  a  sailor  could  conceive  the  misery  of  this 
confinement  to  him.  Accustomed  to  a  free  ocean  life, 
—  to  the  hourly  active  use  of  all  his  limbs,  —  his  cell 
cramped  him,  the  jail  air  stifled  him.  "I  hope,  if 
they  do  anything  with  me,  they  '11  finish  up  the  job 
and  hang  me !  "  The  poor  fellow  feared  most  convic 
tion  of  a  secondary  degree  of  crime,  and  condemnation 
to  a  prison  life. 

"They  '11  have  a  Bedlamite  in  charge,  if  they  do 
that,"  he  said. 

Except  for  this,  he  had  neither  fear  nor  hope.  He 
would  as  soon  die  as  live.  There  was  nothing  in  all 
the  great  world  for  him  except  his  pipe.  He  smoked 
and  brooded  just  as  he  always  had  done;  only  the 
people  round  him  did  not  know  anything  about  that. 
They  said  of  him  in  the  papers  that  he  was  utterly 
hardened  and  unconcerned. 

A  clergyman  came  to  see  him,  and  spoke  to  him 
solemnly  of  his  situation. 

"Do  you  think  I  need  you  to  come  and  tell  me  I  'm 
in  a  fix  ?  "  said  the  sailor  curtly. 

The  good  man,  with  the  best  intent,  warned  him 
against  hardness  of  heart,  and  reminded  him  that  he 
might  shortly  be  sent  to  meet  his  God. 

Ned  Blackmere  took  the  pipe  out  of  his  mouth. 
"I  'd  like  to  see  that  Person.  I  'd  have  a  word  or 
two  to  say  to  Him,  if  I  once  found  Him." 


GUILTY,   OR  NOT  GUILTY?  251 

The  words  were  blasphemous,  perhaps.  God's  min 
ister  was  shocked.  It  may  be  God  saw  deeper,  and 
was  more  pitiful  than  angry. 

The  clergyman  stood,  and  uttered  a  prayer.  He 
would  say  no  more  to  this  desperate  sinner.  He  would 
only  plead  with  Heaven  for  him. 

Blackmere  remained  motionless  and  silent,  keeping 
in  his  fingers  the  pipe  that  otherwise  he  would,  doubt 
less,  have  replaced.  When  the  petition  was  ended,  he 
held  out  his  hand :  — 

"  If  you  meant  all  that,  I  thank  you,  whether  Any 
body  heard  it  or  not." 

The  minister  took  the  offered  hand.  "Lord!  help 
this  soul,  that  Thou  hast  made,  to  find  Thee !  "  And 
so  he  went  away. 

That  same  night  Ned  Blackmere  had  another  visitor. 

It  was  just  at  dusk  when  he  heard  the  clank  of  the 
ponderous  lock,  and  the  door  swung  open,  and  Gershom 
Vorse  came  in  with  the  turnkey. 

Blackmere  did  not  look  up  at  first.  The  young  man 
spoke. 

"I  'm  here,  shipmate!  " 

Then  a  sudden  quiver  ran  over  the  strong  man's 
shoulders,  before  he  got  up  and  came  round. 

"I  didn't  suppose  I  had  a  friend  in  the  world  that 
would  do  as  much  as  this,"  he  said.  There  was  a 
quiver  in  the  rough  voice,  too.  The  heart  had  not 
been  trampled  out  of  him  quite,  after  all. 

"You  see,  I  know  that  you  are  here  for  nothing," 
said  Gershom,  in  a  strong,  cheery  way,  straight  out. 
"And  I  'm  come  to  tell  them  so." 

"You  really  did  n't  think  it  of  me  ?"  asked  Ned 
Blackmere,  with  a  kind  of  incredulous  earnestness. 

"I  didn't  think  it,  nor  I  shouldn't  think  it,  any 
how  ;  but  besides  that,  I  knoiv  better. " 

"How  can  you  know  anything  about  it?     Didn't  I 


252  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

tell  you  I  'd  got  a  she-devil  for  a  wife?  Didn't  I  tell 
you  it  was  hell  I  was  coming  back  to?  Ain't  them 
the  sort  of  circumstances  that  murder  comes  of?  I 
went  back  there  and  waited  for  her,  alone,  at  night. 
Biddy  Flynn  saw  me  there.  She  peeped  in  at  me 
through  a  hole,  as  she  would  at  a  wild  beast.  She 
heard  me  curse  the  home  that  woman  made  for  me. 
She  heard  me  say  it  stood  between  me  and  anything 
better  on  God's  earth.  Ain't  that  enough  to  prove  it 
on  a  man?  Three  hours  afterwards,  they  found  her 
there,  with  her  head  smashed  in ;  hit  from  behind  with 
a  club.  How  do  you  know  I  didn't  strike  her  down?" 
He  asked  this  almost  fiercely. 

The  stripling  answered  him  with  the  strong,  sure 
word  of  a  man. 

"Because,  Ned,  you  'd  borne  it  all  those  years,  not 
to  do  this  at  last.  And  if  you  'd  struck  her  down  in 
anger,  it  would  n't  have  been  from  behind,  in  the  dark. 
That 's  enough  for  me.  But  I  've  got  something  more 
for  them.  "Was  n't  I  lying  in  my  berth  when  you  came 
aboard  the  brig  and  down  into  the  forecastle,  and  lit 
your  pipe  ?  Did  n't  I  hear  you  say,  thinking  me  asleep, 
kSo  he  wasn't  wanted  no  more  than  I;  he  '11  find  'em 
out  by  and  by'?  Didn't  I  lie  and  think  of  that, 
being  wide  awake  as  I  was,  for  hours  after,  and  hear 
you  walking  all  the  time  overhead,  back  and  forth, 
back  and  forth?  Don't  I  know  the  clock  had  n't  struck 
ten  fifteen  minutes  when  you  first  came  down  ?  And 
didn't  it  go  one  just  as  you  turned  in  at  last?  And 
they  say  the  murder  must  have  been  done  between  half 
past  ten  and  eleven.  That  's  what  I  know  about  it, 
Ned,  and  what  I  've  come  down  from  Hilbury  to  tell 
'em." 

Ned  Blackmere  had  seated  himself  on  the  side  of  his 
bed ;  his  arms  rested  across  his  knees ;  his  head  was 
bent  forward,  listening ;  when  Gershom  had  said  all, 


GUILTY,   OR  NOT  GUILTY?  253 

instead  of  lifting  it,  he  bent  it  lower, —  lower  yet.  It 
was  a  minute,  perhaps,  before  he  raised  it  up,  and 
looked  the  boy  in  the  face ;  and  there  was  a  quick,  up 
ward  motion  of  the  hand  at  the  same  instant.  Some 
thing  came  to  his  eyes,  perhaps,  that,  for  years  of  hard 
looking  out  upon  a  hard  world,  had  not  visited  them 
before. 

"You've  argied  it  out,  shipmate;  and  it  may  be 
you  '11  save  my  life,  whatever  that 's  worth.  But  it 
isn't  that.  You  didn't  believe  it  of  me  ;  and  you  've 
taken  the  trouble  to  think  it  out,  and  come  here  o' 
your  own  accord  to  say  it.  That 's  what  pulls  me 
down;  I  ain't  been  used  to  it." 

He  shook  his  head  and  lowered  it  again,  for  a  min 
ute  ;  then  he  got  up  and  made  a  step  to  Gershom,  and 
held  out  his  hand,  a  hard,  seamed,  callous  hand,  but 
with  no  murder  stain  upon  it. 

"I  wouldn't  go  to  ask  you  to  take  it  afore,"  said 
he.  "But  now, — •  there!"  And  Gershom 's  was  seized 
with  a  grip  that  might  well,  of  itself,  have  forced  tears 
to  his  eyes.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the  tears  were  there. 

"If  ever  we  two  stand  together  on  the  deck  of  the 
same  vessel  again,"  said  Old  Barnacle,  "blow  high  or 
blow  low,  see  if  Ned  Blackmere  don't  stand  your  friend. 
That 'sail." 

The  few  more  prison  days  wore  on ;  the  sailor  in  his 
cell  counted  the  hours  that  seemed  almost  years.  Ger 
shom  lived  on  board  the  brig ;  slept  there,  that  is,  and 
got  his  meals  at  an  eating-house. 

Mr.  Gair  asked  him  to  his  house ;  wondered  that  he 
did  not  come ;  but  the  boy  made  excuse,  at  first,  that 
he  was  better  on  board ;  all  he  had  come  for  was  to  see 
Ned  and  give  his  evidence ;  he  had  left  his  shore  clothes 
at  home;  his  rough  pilot  coat  wasn't  fit  for  a  parlor. 
He  said  this,  at  first;  but  the  blunt,  true  spirit  of 
Prudence  Vorse  worked  in  him  and  came  out  at  last. 


254  THE  GAY  WORTHY  S. 

"I  may  as  well  tell  you,  sir,"  he  said,  one  after 
noon,  in  the  counting-house,  when  Uncle  Reuben  urged 
him  again  to  go  home  with  him  to  tea.  "You  've 
been  kind  to  me ;  and  you  've  given  me  something  to 
do ;  you  've  been  fair  with  me,  and  about  me,  always ; 
and  I  'd  like  to  go  on  in  your  service,  if  you  think  I  'm 
fit  for  it;  but  I  can't  keep  such  a  feeling  back,  and 
put  a  smooth  face  before  it.  Aunt  Jane  hasn't  been 
fair  and  square  with  me,  sir.  If  it  offends  you  for  me 
to  say  this,  I  'm  sorry;  but  you  've  got  the  whole  truth, 
now,  and  it 's  best." 

Mr.  Gair  was  surprised,  perplexed;  but  there  was 
no  insult  in  the  boy's  manner;  only  a  plain  honesty. 
He  could  not  be  offended. 

"I  think  there  is  some  mistake,"  said  he.  "You 
must  have  misunderstood.  Your  aunt  appears  to  me 
to  be  very  fond  of  you." 

Gershom  was  silent  out  of  respect,  not  from  any 
hesitancy  in  his  own  opinion ;  Mr.  Gair  saw  that.  The 
fair-minded  gentleman  —  for  he  was  that  —  knew, 
from  experiences  of  his  own,  that  there  were  certain 
little  crookednesses  in  his  wife's  methods,  which  he 
often  wondered  at ;  since  the  straight  line  seemed  to 
him  the  shortest.  He  would  not  think  of  it  as  delib 
erate  deceit.  Still,  the  subject  would  bear  no  discus 
sion  even  in  thought ;  he  laid  it  aside,  as  he  had  doubt 
less  done  before.  He  knew  nothing,  and  he  desired  to 
know  nothing,  of  any  little  manosuvre  of  hers  against 
which  Gershom 's  simple  bluntness  might  have  revolted. 
Let  it  pass ;  it  would  come  right  by  and  by. 

A  man  can  but  resent  for  his  wife,  however,  when 
it  comes  to  speech  of  her.  There  was  a  little  sudden 
stiffness,  which  he  could  not  help,  as  he  said,  again, 
ending  so  the  conversation,  — 

"Let  it  be  as  you  like,  however.  I  don't  care  to 
ask  any  questions.  Come  if  you  feel  like  it',  there 


GUILTY,  OR  NOT  GUILTY?  255 

can't  be  any  very  grave  hindrance.  Matters  will  work 
round  after  a  while,  I  suppose.  It 's  never  best  to  lay 
up  any  little  misconception  between  friends." 

Say  came  down  with  her  father,  and  had  one  of  her 
old  happy  hours  on  board  the  brig.  Gershom  was  kind. 
He  cracked  a  cocoanut  for  her;  he  opened  his  sea- 
chest,  and  showed  her  the  little  curious  things  a  sailor 
contrives  and  picks  up  on  a  voyage ;  he  had  the  red 
basket  ready  for  her,  and  the  pink  and  spotted  shells ; 
he  even  walked  up  with  her,  and  carried  them  for  her 
when  she  went  home ;  but  he  would  not  go  in.  He 
could  not  stop,  he  said.  Say  wondered ;  but  she  took 
what  the  day  had  given  her,  and  laid  it  up  among  her 
pleasant  memories.  It  had  life  in  it,  that  served  to 
help  out  many  a  dead  day  after. 

The  court  assembled  on  Tuesday.  Blackmere's  case 
came  up  before  the  grand  jury  on  Wednesday. 

He  did  not  know  this,  of  course.  He  lay  waiting 
in  his  cell,  ignorant  of  the  day  or  moment  that  might 
decide  his  fate ;  knowing  only  that  the  court  met  at 
this  time,  and  that  it  was  pending  over  him. 

The  Pearl  had  been  in  port  almost  three  weeks ;  in 
less  than  another  she  would  sail  again.  There  were 
two  things  on  earth  now,  beside  his  pipe,  that  Black- 
mere,  the  prisoner,  cared  for,  — the  hard  man,  who 
had  thought  he  cared  for  nothing.  He  knew  he  loved 
the  brig,  now,  that  he  had  sailed  in  for  seven  years, 
—  that  had  given  him  his  sailor's  sobriquet.  He  knew, 
at  least,  that  it  would  almost  kill  him  if  a  bill  were 
found  against  him,  and  he  were  detained  in  prison  to 
await  a  final  trial,  wearing  out  weeks  or  months  there, 
while  the  ocean  was  blue  in  the  coming  springtime, 
and  the  Pearl  had  her  white  robes  on,  and  was  dancing 
away  over  the  waves.  Perhaps  he  did  not  know  yet 
that  he  had  a  human  love  in  his  heart ;  but  he  knew  he 
had  a  thankfulness,  and  he  thought  of  Gershom  Vorse 


256  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

as  he  had  hardly  thought  of  a  human  creature  since  he 
was  a  boy.  It  was  life  or  death  he  waited  for  at  the 
decision  of  this  grand  jury ;  though  the  worst  appar 
ently  that  could  happen  to  him  would  be  that  they 
should  indict  him  for  the  crime  and  hold  him  for  trial. 

And  the  jury  came  together  on  this  Wednesday,  a 
score  and  more  of  sworn  men,  impaneled  for  this 
duty;  strangers  who  never  heard  before  of  Edward 
Blackmere,  who  knew  nothing  of  himself  or  of  his  life, 
who  were  simply  to  hear  the  scanty  evidence  of  those 
two  hours'  time,  and  from  their  fallible  human  judg 
ment  decide,  as  best  they  could,  the  probabilities  of 
guilt. 

The  district  attorney  entered  his  complaint  on  be 
half  of  the  Commonwealth,  and  brought  forward  his 
witnesses.  They  were  summoned  all  together  from 
the  outer  hall,  and  the  foreman  of  the  jury  adminis 
tered  the  oath. 

Biddy  Flynn  cast  an  apprehensive  look  about  her  as 
she  came  into  the  jury-room,  expecting  to  see  the  pris 
oner  there;  bethinking  herself  painfully  of  what  she 
was  about  to  do;  bethinking  herself  also  remorsefully 
of  the  fine  summer  shawl  that  lay  folded  in  the  press 
at  home.  How  could  she  ever  put  it  on  her  shoulders 
again  with  an  easy  mind,  —  she  who  was  going  to 
swear  away  his  life  ?  She  wished  in  her  heart  that  she 
had  trusted  the  Holy  Mary  to  keep  guard  over  the 
peep-hole,  and  to  save  her  from  her  nightly  dread. 
"Sure,  wasn't  the  Blessed  Mother  and  ahl  the  saints 
enough,  but  she  must  go  pittin'  her  nose  intil  this?  " 
She  wished  to  goodness  it  had  been  fire  first. 

Yet  she  held  up  her  hand  with  the  rest,  and  took 
her  oath  like  a  good  Catholic,  reassured  in  a  degree 
by  the  discovery  that  Blackmere  was  not  present ;  and 
then,  the  others  being  withdrawn  again,  and  she  re 
tained  to  witness  first,  she  drew  her  breath  hard  and 


GUILTY,   OR  NOT  GUILTY?  257 

prepared  to  tell  her  story  Steadfastly.  "The  truth, 
and  the  whole  truth;  "  as  to  "nothing  but  the  truth," 
she  could  not  keep  herself,  except  as  she  was  repeat 
edly  checked  by  the  prosecuting  officer,  from  throwing 
in,  gratuitously,  possible  pleas  and  suppositions  in 
favor  of  the  accused,  which  occurred  to  her,  Biddy 
Flynn,  and  might  fail  to  occur  to  the  minds  of  the 
twenty-three  gentlemen  who  were  to  weigh  and  decide 
upon  the  evidence. 

"What  knowledge  have  you  of  the  man,  Edward 
Blackmere,  now  in  jail  accused  of  the  murder  of  his 
wife?" 

"Heth,  sirs!  it's  little  enough,  I  or  anybody.  He 
was  aff  at  the  say,  mostly.  An'  it 's  a  poor  home  he 
had  till  come  back  to,  an'  that 's  thrue  for  him,  whid- 
dher  or  no." 

"You  knew  his  wife,  Susan?  " 

"Troth,  an'  I  did;  an'  a  purty  piece  she  was,  too, 
wid  her  tantrums." 

"Tell  the  jury  what  you  know  of  the  occurrences  of 
the  night  of  the  17th  of  January  last  past." 

"The  night  av  the  murdher,  is  it?  Will,  thin, 
Sukey  Blackmere  hadn't  darkened  the  doures  for  three 
days.  An'  we  knew  well  enough,  whin  she  did  come, 
it  was  she  wud  bring  the  sivin  divils  wid  her.  An' 
it  's  I  was  an  the  trimble  for  fear  iv  fire,  thim  nights ; 
seeing,  yer  honors,  as  me  bit  iv  a  place,  worse  luck  to 
it!  was  jist  alangside  iv  hers." 

"One  moment.  Explain,  Mrs.  Flynn,  if  you  please, 
what  you  mean  by  the  seven  devils?  Was  Mrs.  Black- 
mere  in  the  habit  of  bringing  home  company  with 
her?" 

"Sorra  company,  but  jist  that  I  tould  ye  av.  The 
sivin  divils  that  wud  git  intil  her,  wid  the  gin.  I  'm 
not  saying,  nayther,  but  there  might  likely  be  some  iv 
her  comera^s  in  afther  her,  now  an'  agin;  an'  who's 


258  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

to  know,  yer  honors,  whin  she  'd  been  aff  an  the  strag 
gle  three  days  an'  nights,  what  sort  iv  riff-raffery 
might  come  trailin'  afther  her  let  alone  a  dacent  man 
that  was  jist  home  from  the  wild  says  and  fetched 
back  his  wages  reg'lar  more  shame  til  her  for  that 
same  ?  " 

Biddy  rolled  off  this  sentence  of  query  from  the  tip 
of  her  tongue,  in  true  impetuous  Hibernian  fashion, 
without  breath  or  comma;  and  it  was  only  the  final 
interrogation  point  that  gave  the  examining  officer  op 
portunity  to  draw  curb  upon  her. 

"We  don't  want  any  conjectures,  or  suggestions, 
my  good  woman.  Your  simple  evidence  is  all  that  is 
required.  The  jury  will  take  care  of  the  rest,  and 
draw  its  own  conclusions." 

"Humph!  It's  not  Biddy  Flynn  wud  be  afther 
middling  wid  what  was  none  iv  her  concerns ;  but  two 
heads  is  bitter  nor  one,  for  all  that,  if  one  an  'em  is  a 
shape's  head.  An'  yer  honors  may  jist  dhrah  ahl  the 
conclusions  ye  like !  "  Said,  not  insolently,  but  with 
a  twinkle  of  pure  Irish  drollery,  and  a  tossing  up  of 
broad,  white  cap-border  that  betokened  anything  but  a 
sheepish  consciousness  on  her  part. 

"You  will  be  so  good  as  not  to  interrupt  the  reg 
ular  proceedings ;  but  go  on  with  your  evidence  in  the 
case." 

"An'  did  I  inthurrupt?  Sure,  I  thought  it  was 
goin'  an  swately  I  was.  Will,  thin,  it  was  that  night, 
the  sivinteenth  iv  Jinuary,  that  I  tuk  me  sup  iv  tay, 
an'  redded  up  me  room,  an'  was  goin'  to  bed,  tired 
enough  wid  a  hard  day's  wash,  whin  I  bethought  mesel 
iv  the  Blissid  Virgin." 

"We  do  not  need  to  know  that,  Mrs.  Flynn.  Do 
not  dwell  upon  your  thoughts,  or  any  irrelevant  out 
side  circumstances,  but  give  us  the  facts,  according  to 
your  knowledge." 


GUILTY,   OR  NOT  GUILTY?  259 

"Arrah,  an'  is  it  thoughts  that 's  outside  circum- 
shtances,  I'd  like  to  know?  An'  isn't  the  Blissid 
Virgin  a  fact  ?  An'  wud  I  'ave  known  anny thing  at 
ahl  aboot  it,  but  for  hersel?  Is  n't  it  she  that  's 
hingin'  be  the  nail  over  the  bit  iv  a  crack  in  the  boord- 
in'  atwixt  me  room  an'  Sukey  Blackmere's?  An' 
how  could  I  'ave  seen  a  ha'porth  iv  ahl  wint  an,  but 
for  bethinkin'  mesel  iv  her,  I  wondher?  So,  I  tuk 
her  down;  an',  bad  luck  till  me,  I  jist  luk't  in;  for 
fear  iv  fire,  yer  honors.  An',  I  see  "  — 

Biddy  paused. 

"Very  well.      What  did  you  see  ?  " 

"I  see  a  dishgraceful  dhirty  room,  yer  honor. 
Enough  to  make  any  dacent  man  shwear  to  come  home 
till  it;  let  alone  bein'  eight  months  upon  the  say. 
An'  I  see  the  man  there,  sittin'  his  lane  —  Ned  Black- 
mere;  an'  he  had  his  ilbows  an  his  knees,  an'  his  head 
betwane  his  two  fishts.  An'  he  luk't  as  if  soometh'n 
lay  so  heavy  upon  him  as  he  'd  niver  rise  up  from  an- 
undher  it.  An'  are  yees  afther  thinkin',  gintlemen, 
I  can  fale  it  a  purty  thing  to  be  shtandin'  here  the 
day,  a-hilpin'  to  pile  moor  an?  I'll  till  yees  the 
thruth,  for  I  've  shwore  me  Bible  oath  an  it ;  but  for 
ahl  he  's  a  dark  an'  a  shtrong  man,  an'  was  an  angered 
one  that  night,  an'  many  times  before,  for  rason  why, 
I  '11  never  believe,  as  God  sees  me,  that  he  shtruck  the 
blow.  Don't  I  know  what  he  gave  me  the  fine  silk 
shahl  for,  coom  Foorth  iv  July  two  years  ago  ?  Was  n't 
it  that  I  shouldn't  complain  iv  the  misherable  jade, 
an'  git  her  turned  upon  the  shtraat?  Don't  I  know 
it,  as  well  as  if  he'd  said  the  wurruds?  An'  don't 
judge  hard,  yer  honors,  as  ye  '11  be  jidged  yersels  some 
day,  what  I  '11  have  to  till  yees  nixt!  " 

"Go  on,"  said  the  attorney  quietly,  forbearing  this 
time  to  rebuke  her. 

"He  was  a  brukken  an'  an  ill-used  man,  I  till  yees; 


260  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

an'  that  was  what  was  in  his  face,  an'  not  murdher. 
An'  he  shqueezed  his  fishts  tighter  agin  his  jaws,  an' 
the  wurruds  came  out  as  if  they  couldn't  be  hild  in. 
He  called  her  bashte,  an'  thrue  for  her,  she  was  that, 
an'  no  more  nor  liss.  An'  thin  he  said  it  was  this 
that  stud  between  him  an'  any  bitter  home  upon  God's 
earth.  An'  whiddher  a  man  says  it  or  not,  mush  n't 
he  think  it,  gintlemin,  whin  it  's  druv  doon  upon  him 
so  ?  An'  thin  he  shwore  a  big  round  wurrud,  as  maybe 
anny  one  iv  yees  wud  iv  shwore  it  in  his  place,  the 
night.  An'  thin,  I  hung  up  the  Blissid  Mary  in  her 
place  agin,  an'  cript  down,  an'  got  intil  me  bed.  For 
it  was  fitter  for  the  pitiful  Mother  till  hear  more 
nor  I!" 

"Do  you  know  at  what  hour  of  the  evening  this 
was?" 

"  Sorra  know,  beyant  that  the  bells  rung  nine  while 
I  was  washin'  up  me  bits  of  tay  things ;  an'  before  I 
fell  ashlaap,  the  clock  struck  tin." 

"Was  this  the  last  you  knew  of  Edward  Black- 
mere  ?  " 

"Excipt  that  I  heard  him  git  up,  prisintly,  an' 
walk  out.  An'  I  couldn't  say  whiddher  it  was  beyant 
the  door  he  wint  or  not ;  he  might  be  waitin'  there,  or 
he  might  iv  wint  away ;  but  in  me  shoul,  I  believe  he 
wint  away  intirely;  an'  whativer  happunt  afther,  he 
knew  no  moor  nor  I;  but  it  was  the  Lard's  own  deliv 
erance  till  him." 

Upon  further  questioning,  Biddy  related,  as  clearly 
as  she  could,  the  circumstances  of  her  waking  shortly 
after,  as  the  reader  knows  them ;  and  of  her  giving 
the  alarm. 

She  described  the  sounds  which  roused  her.  "Mixed 
up  wid  the  shlape,  they  was,"  she  said,  "so  I  couldn't 
iv  shwore  thin,  whiddher  I  haard  thim  or  dhramed 
thim;  but  I  knew  well,  afther,  whin  we  found  the 


GUILTY,  OR  NOT  GUILTY?  261 

wurruk  that  was  done.  It  was  a  fahlin',  an'  a  crushin', 
towanstlike ;  an'  the  shteps,  thin,  goin'  afi°.  Sure,  I 
know  well  it  was  sorra  else  than  the  murdherin'  itsel; 
and  the  villain's  faat  that  did  it!  "  She  testified  con 
fidently  also  to  the  long,  moaning,  bubbling  breath  that 
had  terrified  her  at  the  last,  just  before  she  rushed  up 
stairs  to  Luke  Dolan's  door. 

"  How  long  had  you  been  asleep,  do  you  suppose  ?  " 

"I  'm  not  afther  shupozin',  at  ahl.  What  call  iv  I 
to  go  shupozin',  whin  it 's  an  me  Bible  oath  I  am?  It 
might  iv  been  an  oor,  an'  it  might  iv  been  —  hoult ! 
I  can  till  yees  this,  thin.  It  was  pitch  darruk  in  the 
avenin',  whin  I  pit  oot  me  candle,  an'  whin  I  wakened 
there  was  a  whisper  iv  light  in  the  windy,  for  the  moon 
was  comin'  ap,  though  she  had  n't  got  fair  over  the 
taps  iv  the  houses.  Maybe  yer  honors  are  knowledg- 
able  to  tell  what  time  that  might  iv  been  ?  " 

"  Make  note  of  that ;  it  may  be  important, "  said 
the  attorney  to  the  juror  who  was  recording  evidence. 
And  Biddy  was  dismissed. 

Luke  Dolan  testified  to  the  character  of  the  deceased ; 
and  to  the  ill  terms  on  which  she  lived  with  her  hus 
band  ;  bearing  witness  at  the  same  time,  as  Biddy  had 
done,  that  Blackmere  provided  for  her  necessities. 
"  like  an  honest  man ;  "  and  that  though  he  had  often 
heard  high  words  between  them,  and  "been  in  dread 
of  worse, "  he  had  never  known  him  to  strike  the  wo 
man  a  blow. 

He  testified,  also,  as  did  other  inmates  of  the  house, 
that  it  was  "  full  eleven  by  the  clock  "  —  some  said  a 
few  minutes  later  —  when  the  alarm  arose.  The  find 
ing  of  the  body;  the  fact  that  life  had  manifestly  but 
just  departed,  and  the  impossibility  of  the  woman's 
having  lived  many  minutes  after  such  a  blow  was  struck, 
were  brought  forward  in  testimony  by  the  same  wit 
nesses  who  had  given  evidence  previously  at  the  cor 
oner's  inquest  and  before  the  magistrate. 


262  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

These  points  of  time,  therefore,  were  proved.  That 
it  was  between  nine  and  ten  o'clock  when  Biddy  Fly nn 
first  made  her  investigation,  and  saw  Blackmere  in  his 
wife's  room.  That  it  must  have  been  nearly  eleven 
when  she  awoke,  and  heard  the  sounds  which  alarmed 
her;  since  there  was  the  "whisper  iv  light  in  the 
windy, "  and  the  moon,  upon  referring  to  an  almanac, 
was  ascertained  to  have  risen,  on  the  night  of  the  17th 
of  January,  at  ten  o'clock  and  twenty-four  minutes; 
this  conclusion  being  strengthened  also  by  the  fact  that 
the  deceased  was  breathing  just  before  Biddy  ran  up  to 
Dolan's  door.  And  that  it  was  eleven  or  more,  when 
the  inmates  of  the  house  gathered  in  the  room,  and 
found  her  dead.  Therefore,  that  the  deed  must  have 
been  done  as  late  as  half  past  ten,  certainly,  more 
probably  at  near  eleven. 

Now  Gershom  Vorse,  having  been  meanwhile,  or  at 
any  time,  in  communication  with  none  of  these  previous 
witnesses,  was  recalled. 

"  I  will  request  your  careful  attention,  gentlemen, " 
said  the  attorney  to  the  jury,  "to  the  evidence  of  this 
witness.  It  has  been  volunteered  since  the  accused 
was  arrested  and  held  to  answer  to  the  charge.  You 
will  please  to  bear  in  mind  all  that  has  foregone,  tend 
ing  to  fix  the  points  of  time  in  relation  to  the  case 
before  you.  You  will  proceed  to  tell  the  jury,"  he 
said,  addressing  Gershom,  "all  that  you  can  recollect 
of  the  disposal  of  your  own  time,  on  the  evening  of  the 
17th  of  January  last  past;  and  all  that  you  know 
positively  of  the  movements  of  the  accused,  Edward 
Blackmere,  upon  that  same  night." 

"I  was  on  board  the  brig  Pearl,  which  came  into 
this  port  that  evening,  at  about  seven  o'clock.  We 
made  fast  to  the  wharf  at  about  half  past  seven.  Ed 
ward  Blackmere  was  one  of  the  crew.  I  left  him  on 
board  at  eight  o'clock,  when  I  went  ashore  and  walked 


GUILTY,   OR  NOT  GUILTY?  263 

up  to  the  house  of  Mr.  Reuben  Gair  in  Hill  Street. 
I  remained  at  his  house,  perhaps,  three  quarters  of  an 
hour.  The  bell  rung  for  nine  as  I  was  on  my  way 
back  to  the  brig.  I  stayed  on  deck  half  an  hour,  per 
haps,  before  I  went  below.  Then  I  partly  undressed 
and  turned  in.  I  lay  awake  and  heard  the  clock  strike 
ten.  Very  soon  after  —  it  could  not  have  been  fif 
teen  minutes,  and,  I  think,  hardly  ten  —  Blackmere 
came  on  board.  He  came  down  into  the  forecastle 
and  struck  a  match,  and  lit  his  pipe.  He  stopped 
beside  my  berth,  and  probably  thought  me  asleep; 
for  he  said  to  himself,  'So  he  wasn't  wanted  no 
more  than  I;  he  '11  find  'em  out  by  and  by.'  I  did 
not  move  nor  speak;  and  he  went  up  the  ladder.  I 
heard  him  walking  up  and  down  the  forecastle  deck, 
until  after  midnight.  The  clock  struck  one  just  as 
he  came  down  and  turned  in.  This  is  all,  sir.  I  can 
simply  say,  upon  my  oath,  that  I  know  Ned  Black- 
mere  was  aboard  the  Pearl  from  fifteen  minutes  after 
ten,  or  earlier,  till  one  o'clock;  and  I  found  him  there 
when  I  awoke,  at  six,  next  morning." 

"Are  you  sure  that  you  may  not  have  fallen  partly 
asleep  between  ten  o'clock  and  the  time  Blackmere 
came  down  ?  " 

"I  am  certain,  sir,  that  I  never  closed  my  eyes, 
nor  lost  myself,  till  after  one.  I  had  a  good  deal  to 
think  of.  I  had  heard  bad  news." 

"How  was  the  forecastle?      Open,  or  closed?  " 

"The  doors  were  open,  sir.  And  the  scuttle  pushed 
back  just  far  enough  for  a  man  to  pass  in  and  out 
easily." 

"Was  it  dark  or  light,  above,  when  Blackmere 
came  on  board  ?  " 

"  Dark,  sir,  when  he  came ;  but  the  moon  began  to 
come  up  a  little  after." 

"How  long  after?" 


264  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

"Fifteen  or  twenty  minutes,  I  should  think." 

"How  does  the  brig  lie?  " 

"At  the  end  of  the  pier;   stern  down  the  harbor." 

"Toward  the  east,  then?  " 

"Southeast;  yes,  sir." 

"  Thank  you,  young  man ;  you  have  given  your  evi 
dence  very  clearly,  and  to  the  point.  You  may  go." 

"The  evidence  is  all  in,  gentlemen,"  said  the  pre 
siding  officer  to  the  jury,  after  Gershom  had  with 
drawn.  "And  my  own  opinion  is  that  you  will 
hardly  be  able  to  find  a  bill  in  this  case,  especially 
under  the  aspect  which  it  is  made  to  assume  by  this 
additional  testimony.  The  foregoing  evidence  goes  to 
prove  that  the  murdered  woman  had  not  ceased  to 
breathe  at  a  few  minutes  to  eleven  o'clock.  The 
medical  opinion  given  upon  oath  declares  that  death 
would  almost  immediately  follow  such  a  blow.  Mrs. 
Flynn,  who  heard  that  last  struggling  breath,  and 
directly  after  gave  the  alarm,  testifies  to  having  heard 
also,  at  her  first  awaking,  the  sound  of  retreating 
steps  from  the  adjoining  room.  The  moon,  she  says, 
had  at  that  time  risen  sufficiently  high  for  its  light  to 
be  perceptible  in  the  street.  It  must,  therefore,  have 
been  as  much  as  half  an  hour  high.  You  find  from 
the  almanac  that  the  moon,  on  that  night,  rose  at  ten 
o'clock,  twenty-four  minutes.  The  other  inmates  of 
the  house  declare  that  it  was  at  or  after  eleven  o'clock 
when  they  entered  Mrs.  Blackmere's  room,  and  dis 
covered  her  to  be  dead.  It  seems  plainly  indicated 
by  these  facts  that  the  murder,  the  escape  of  the  mur 
derer  from  the  premises,  the  awaking  of  Mrs.  Flynn, 
and  the  alarm  in  the  house,  and  the  finding  of  the 
body,  must  all  have  taken  place  in  very  rapid  succes 
sion,  and  as  late,  or  later,  than  a  quarter  to  eleven  by 
the  clock.  The  last  witness  tells  you,  clearly,  that 
the  accused  came  back  on  board  the  brig  at  about  ten 


GUILTY,  OE  NOT  GUILTY?  265 

or  fifteen  minutes  after  ten;  and  that  the  moon  came 
up  some  fifteen  minutes  later.  Setting  all  this  aside, 
even,  there  seems  a  failure  of  direct  evidence  that 
could  convict  the  man.  But  the  positive  proof  in  his 
favor  must  rest  upon  this  question  of  half  an  hour  of 
time.  It  will  be  your  duty  carefully  to  weigh  the 
facts,  and  to  decide  according  to  the  interpretation 
they  bear  to  you." 

The  grand  jury  deliberated,  and  came  to  the  con 
clusion  that  it  could  "find  no  bill." 

Edward  Blackmere  was  ordered  to  be  discharged 
from  custody. 

Biddy  Flynn's  suggestions,  however  inappropriate 
as  testimony,  and  unnecessary  as  addressed  to  intelli 
gence  fully  prepared  to  devote  itself  to  the  investiga 
tion,  found  place  also  in  the  minds  of  the  twenty-three 
gentlemen  whose  duty  it  was  to  consider  them ;  and 
her  "whisper  iv  light  in  the  windy  "  was  the  first  link 
in  the  chain  of  facts  elicited  which  made  it  impossible 
to  charge  Blackmere  with  the  crime.  It  would  have 
done  Biddy  great  good  to  have  known  this;  as  it  was, 
she  never  put  on  the  silk  shawl  of  a  pleasant  Sunday 
without  a  "Thanks  be  to  God,  I  said  as  much  for  him 
as  agin  him,  annyway !  " 

But  it  was  Gershom  Vorse's  testimony,  given  with 
such  simple  clearness,  that  saved  the  man.  The  dis 
trict  attorney  said  this  to  him  as  they  walked  up  the 
street  with  Mr.  Gair,  after  the  court  adjourned. 

"It  was  well  for  the  fellow  that  you  came  forward, " 
he  said.  "And  also  that  the  moon  rose  just  at  that 
particular  hour  on  that  particular  night.  It  all  hung 
on  a  very  delicate  hinge.  The  moon  was  the  only 
witness  who  mightn't  be  supposed  to  make  a  mistake 
of  a  half  hour  or  so.  Independently  of  the  question 
of  time,  however,  I  felt  that  without  further  evidence 
against  him,  a  jury  could  never  have  convicted  him. 


266  THE  GAYWOBTHYS. 

He  was  seen  there  an  hour  previous,  and  that  was  all. 
Nobody  could  tell  when  the  woman  came  in  or  how. 
As  Mrs.  Flynn  observed,  there  's  no  knowing  what 
sort  of  'comerags  '  she  may  have  had." 

"Blackmere  's  a  good  fellow  and  a  valuable  sailor. 
He  's  odd  and  churlish,  but  I  don't  believe  there  's 
the  germ  of  such  a  crime  in  his  nature,"  said  Mr. 
Gair.  "He  has  sailed  with  Burley  for  six  years. 
I  've  never  heard  the  first  ill  thing  of  him." 

"He  's  a  noble-hearted  fellow,"  said  Gershom 
warmly,  "and  everything  has  always  worked  against 
him.  There  's  such  a  lot  of  cheating  and  meanness 
in  the  world !  " 

"You  've  found  that  out  early,"  said  the  legal  gen 
tleman,  glancing  round  upon  the  youth. 

Gershom  did  not  answer.  He  said  to  himself  only, 
"He  does  not  contradict  me!  " 

The  mistake  of  Gershom  Yorse  was  —  now  and  for 
years  through  life  —  that  he  overlooked  the  very  good 
by  contrast  with  which  he  judged  the  evil.  He  for 
got  what  it  was  in  himself  that  revolted  against  this 
evil.  He  saw  a  noble  nature  warped  and  soured  by 
wrong,  and  failed  to  consider  that  but  for  this  very 
nobleness  the  warping  and  the  souring  could  not  have 
been.  He  saw  that  there  had  been  trusting  and  be 
trayal,  faith  and  disappointment.  He  knew  that  he, 
too,  had  believed  and  been  deceived ;  but  the  faith,  and 
what  it  had  first  grown  from  and  been  fed  upon,  was 
suddenly  lost  sight  of  in  the  treachery  that  blasted  it. 
He  had  "  come  out  to  an  edge, "  as  he  had  once  said  of 
himself,  and  looked  forth  for  a  little  upon  life ;  it  was 
the  night  side  of  things  that  first  revealed  itself.  He 
forgot  the  day  that  had  been,  or  he  believed  that  it 
was  daylight  only  in  the  one  home,  and  in  the  few 
hearts ;  darkness  was  the  "  stuff  "  the  rest  of  the  world 
was  made  of.  The  stars  that  shone  out  here  and 


GUILTY,  OR  NOT  GUILTY?  267 

there  showed  but  the  black  gulfs  about  them.  There 
was  his  grandfather,  there  was  his  mother,  there  was 
Blackmere ;  but  there  was  Aunt  Jane,  —  there  was  the 
sailor's  uncle,  sister,  wife.  There  were  Aunt  Joanna 
and  Rebecca;  but  then  there  were  all  the  little  shams 
and  malignities  and  hypocrisies  of  Hilbury ;  the  Prou- 
tys,  and  the  Hineses,  and  Stacy  Lawton's  silly  set ; 
and  Aunt  Joanna  knew  it  as  well  as  he  did;  Aunt 
Rebecca  was  a  saint,  and  shut  her  eyes.  There  were 
Burley  and  Oakman,  and  the  stories  of-  their  generous 
bravery  and  truth;  but  there  were  the  yarns  of  the 
forecastle  that  had  opened  up  a  glimpse  into  the  mean 
nesses  and  cruelties  and  depravities  of  sailor  life.  He 
had  got  it  all  to  live  through,  he  supposed ;  he  would 
set  his  little  strength  against  the  wrong  as  he  best 
could,  but  he  looked  for  wrong  now  rather  than  for 
right ;  he  was  taking  up  a  position  antagonistic  rather 
than  gladly  cooperative  with  the  world  as  he  found  it. 
He  was  beginning  to  do  this,  —  he  was  setting  his  face 
that  way ;  he  was  only  seventeen,  and  it  had  not  hard 
ened  in  him  yet ;  but  the  first  joyous  credulity  of  his 
youth  was  already  gone.  And  whose  fault  was  it,  first 
of  all? 

Gershom  had  got  a  new  bitterness  into  his  heart  in 
these  days  of  his  waiting  about  the  court.  A  new 
revelation  had  come  to  him  of  himself,  and  of  all  that 
Aunt  Jane  had  thwarted  in  him.  He  had  found  out 
what  it  was  that  he  ought  to  have  been,  — what  this 
quick,  keen,  uncompromising  sense  of  the  just  and 
right  was  given  to  him  for.  He  could  have  stood  up 
and  pleaded  for  it  as  he  heard  it  pleaded  for  by  oth 
ers.  He  followed  the  argument;  he  caught  its  points: 
they  flashed  upon  him  as  he  heard  the  evidence  given 
in,  and  he  anticipated  them  in  the  speech  of  the  learned 
counsel.  It  was  a  civil  case  he  listened  to,  hampered 
with  technicalities,  confused  with  intricacies  of  law; 


268  THE  GAY  WORTHY  S. 

yet  through  all  this  his  clear,  honest  apprehension 
grasped  the  inherent  right  of  the  thing,  and  his  heart 
beat  high,  almost  to  the  forgetting  of  his  anxiety  for 
Blackmere,  as  he  listened  to  the  eloquent  plea,  and 
heard  at  last  the  verdict  given  for  the  plaintiff,  and 
knew  that  one  wrong  at  least  had  been  rectified  in  the 
\vicked  world,  that  morning.  This  was  wrhat  his  in 
stinct  would  have  turned  to  when  he  had  come  to  see 
more  broadly  what  various  work  there  was  for  men  to 
do,  and  when  his  intellect  had  been  trained  to  the 
point  for  choosing.  "  I  could  have  done  it,  too !  "  he 
said  to  himself,  afterward,  in  a  turmoil  of  excited 
thought.  "Some  time  I  could  have  done  such  things, 
too !  If  I  had  taken  what  my  grandfather  would  have 
given  me,  if  I  had  been  in  college,  now,  getting  my 
self  ready  for  it,  instead  of  running  off  after  my  first 
fancy,  and  fixing  myself  in  a  forecastle  for  life,  per 
haps  I 

"  Grandfather  said  the  truth ;  there  is  scope  for  no 
bleness  in  every  profession;  and  I  might  have  had  a 
wider  scope.  If  I  had  only  gone  back  to  Hilbury,  and 
seen  him!  If  I  had  only  had  my  mother's  message, 
that  I  ought  to  have  had,  —  that  Aunt  Jane  swindled 
me  out  of,  —  swindling  me  out  of  my  life,  too,  at  the 
same  time!  There's  nobody  to  send  me  to  college 
now.  I  must  never  let  my  mother  know  I  've  had  a 
thought  of  it;  I  can't  take  all  her  little  property;  and 
that  is  what  it  would  come  to.  No!  my  life  's  fixed 
for  me.  I  've  chosen  to  be  a  sailor,  there  's  no  help 
for  it  now;  I  must  make  the  best  of  it.  And  I  was 
so  glad  to  go  in  the  Pearl  less  than  a  year  ago !  But 
I  've  saved  Blackmere 's  life;  and  there  might  n't  have 
been  anybody  else  to  do  that!  I'll  go  ahead,  now, 
and  see  what  it  leads  to!  I  '11  put  my  whole  might 
into  it,  as  my  grandfather  told  me;  I  '11  make  a  man 
of  myself!  I'll  think  of  my  mother.  I'll  think 
of"  — 


GUILTY,   OR  NOT  GUILTY f  269 

"Why  had  not  God  prevented  this?  "  was  the  re 
bellious  thought  with  which  he  ended.  The  first 
shadow  of  religious  doubt  fell  on  him  at  this  instant. 

Jane  Gair !  will  you  ever  find  out  all  that  you  have 
done? 

Gershom  Vorse  went  back  to  Hilbury;  he  stayed 
with  his  mother  till  the  last  possible  moment ;  then  he 
came  down  and  joined  Blackmere,  and  shipped  for  his 
second  voyage  in  the  Pearl.  As  ordinary  seaman  this 
time;  next  it  should  be  as  able  hand.  His  life  was 
fixed  for  him ;  there  was  nothing  to  go  back  for,  now. 
There  were  years  of  danger  and  hardship  before  him ; 
of  weariness  and  disgust,  very  likely;  there  was  the 
hope  of  rising,  of  coming  to  be  master  of  a  ship,  by 
and  by ;  of  doing  great  things  for  his  mother  yet,  be 
fore  she  should  grow  old.  He  had  not  done  dreaming 
even  yet. 

In  all  his  dreams  the  sailor  Blackmere  had  a  place. 
These  two  clung  together.  There  was  a  fast  friendship 
between  them  now.  Shoulder  to  shoulder,  against  the 
world.  Not  seeing  the  beauty  of  their  own  attitude; 
discerning  only  the  necessity  that  set  them  so. 

"You  're  the  only  one  that  knows,"  said  Blackmere 
to  the  boy.  "There  '11  always  be  doubt  hangin'  over 
me,  for  all.  I  wish  a'most  they  'd  found  the  bill,  and 
I  'd  had  my  trial.  I  'd  ha'  been  one  thing  or  the 
other  then." 

Blackmere  had  read  the  doubt  in  the  looks  of  his  old 
neighbors  when  he  went  back,  and  gave  away  his  bits 
of  furniture  among  them ;  he  would  sell  nothing. 

They  thanked  him.  They  were  glad  of  his  getting 
off,  but  they  thanked  him  with  a  certain  timid  shrink 
ing,  as  if  there  were  some  strange  spell  and  horror  upon 
him  still.  They  spoke  of  it  as  a  "getting  off."  Only 
Biddy  Flynn  bade  him  "  God  bliss  ye, "  and  "  knew 
that  sorra  thing  he  'd  had  till  do  wid  it,  at  ahl!  " 


270  THE  GAYWOBTHYS. 

"They  think  it 's  greatly  luck,  and  having  friends," 
said  Old  Barnacle  moodily.  "I  '11  never  overlive  it. 
It  '11  come  up  agin  me,  yet.  There  's  a  rope  round 
my  neck,  though  they  didn't  hang  me  up  by  it." 

So  these  two  sailed  away  again  together  in  the 
Pearl. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE    ROUGH    OFF. 

SICKNESS  and  death  come  every  day,  as  the  good 
doctor  had  said.  Somewhere  or  another  —  yes ;  they 
are  all  around  us ;  we  hear  of  them ;  they  make  a  staple 
of  our  daily  news ;  yet  there  are  periods,  perhaps,  in 
the  history  of  almost  every  tolerably  healthy  country 
neighborhood,  when  there  seems  to  be  an  invisible  cor 
don  of  safety  drawn  about  it ;  when  for  years  there 
happens  no  noteworthy  death;  none  that  leaves  a  felt 
vacancy.  And  then,  suddenly,  the  Reaper  comes, 
gathering  in,  in  one  short  season,  the  harvest  he  has 
waited  for. 

It  had  been  so  in  Hilbury.  Except  deaths  of  chil 
dren,  or  of  the  very  old,  who  must  be  dropping  off  in 
turn,  the  little  circle  in  which  the  elements  of  this  our 
simple  story  germinated  had  been  the  same,  untouched 
of  vital  change,  for  years ;  enough  in  number  to  take 
in  the  whole  conscious  lifetime  of  little  Sarah  Gair. 
Summer  after  summer  she  had  gone  up  there  to  see 
the  same  familiar  faces  about  the  villages,  and  in  the 
pews  at  church,  and  in  the  farmhouses,  where  her 
aunts  went  visiting  with  her.  Only  Mrs.  Hartshorne 
had  died ;  this  event,  in  its  solemnity  and  suddenness, 
and  from  the  emphasis  of  circumstance  at  the  time, 
had  stood  alone,  and  been  made  memorable ;  minor 
affairs  were  dated  from  it,  — before  and  after.  It 
was  an  era. 

Now,  within  these  six  months  past,  death  and 
change  had  been  busy.  Hilbury  gave  its  quota  of 
events  into  the  chronicle  of  its  district.  Several  of  its 


272  THE  GAYWOBTHYS. 

leading  townsmen  had  passed  away.  One  after  an 
other,  from  their  responsible  positions,  from  the  head 
ship  of  their  families,  from  use  in  the  little  commu 
nity,  they  had  gone  silently ;  and  from  the  places  that 
knew  them,  and  that  scarcely  seemed  the  same,  they 
had  dropped  out,  leaving  only  a  memory,  and  a  graven 
record  in  the  old  churchyard  where  their  graves  were 
not  yet  green. 

Squire  Lavvton,  Parson  Fairbrother,  Dr.  Gayworthy. 

And  now,  as  the  springtime  softened,  and  the 
farmers  began  to  be  busy  in  the  fields,  and  the  year's 
plans  opened  out  to  hopefulness  and  industry,  it  was 
growing  evident  that  another,  humbler  than  either  of 
these,  perhaps,  yet  so  quietly  useful  in  his  place,  and 
so  wonted  among  them,  so  a  part  of  their  everyday 
associations,  as  many  a  simple  soul,  fixed  and  constant 
in  its  little  round  of  life,  grows  to  be  in  a  neighbor 
hood,  that  when  he  should  disappear  wholly  from  their 
midst  the  towns-people  would  say,  wonderingly,  to  each 
other,  "Who  would  have  thought  we  should  have  missed 
him  so  ?  "  —  a  man  like  this,  it  was  growing  evident, 
was  about  to  follow  meekly  on,  in  the  great  procession 
that  moveth  ever,  soundless  and  grand,  between  the 
worlds,  —  a  bridge  of  souls  across  the  eternal  void. 

Jaazaniah  Hoogs  "kept  failing."  Slowly,  hesitat 
ing  between  life  and  death  a  long,  long  time.  Tem 
perament  rules,  perhaps,  in  all  things,  to  the  last. 
We  are  surprised  foolishly  when  the  vigorous  and  ro 
bust  life,  full  of  energy,  quick  and  strong  in  all  its 
deeds,  meets  death  as  it  has  met  all  else  before,  and 
goes  down  when  the  call  comes  without  a  pause  or  par 
ley  among  the  shadows,  and  hides  itself  suddenly  from 
our  sight.  The  feeble  organization  resolves  slowly; 
parts  thread  by  thread  with  its  hold  on  earth.  As  old 
Hines  said  coarsely  and  unfeelingly,  but  with  a  certain 
basis  of  truth  for  his  words,  it  "can't  saem  to  up  an' 
die,  even,  smart,  an'  ha'  done  with  it !  " 


THE  ROUGH  OFF.  273 

There  is  a  beauty  and  a  use  in  strength.  There  is  a 
beauty  and  a  use  in  feebleness,  also.  All  are  not  made 
alike.  God,  who  cuts  no  two  leaves  upon  a  tree  after 
the  same  invariable  model,  shapes  also  his  soul-work 
after  his  own  will,  variously. 

Wealthy  watched  and  tended,  unweariedly.  She 
knew  her  husband  must  die.  She  never  thought  that 
he  was  long  in  dying.  She  read  a  language  in  his  pale, 
patient  face,  in  his  large,  soft,  gentle  eye,  that  needed 
no  spoken  words  for  her.  She  made  up  his  bed  for 
him  fresh  and  sweet,  and  lifted  his  shoulders  —  painless 
now,  but  with  the  stalwart  strength  gone  out  of  them 
forever  —  against  the  comfortable  pillows ;  and  pulled 
the  curtain  back  from  the  low  window  near  which  he 
lay,  unfolding  so  the  sweet,  growing  greenness  without, 
and  put  up  the  sash,  in  the  mild,  sunny  mornings, 
letting  in  the  song  of  birds.  Away  down  the  moun 
tain-side,  among  the  rocks  and  whispering  trees,  and 
glittering  trickle  of  water- threads,  he  could  look;  the 
calm,  clear  pond  sleeping  below,  and  the  brightening 
blue  of  heaven  bending  over  all. 

She  left  him  so,  with  his  little  Bible  at  his  side,  and 
went  away,  pursuing  her  daily  morning  work  close 
within  call ;  and  when  she  came  back,  she  questioned 
him  nothing,  after  the  fashion  of  her  creed  and  people ; 
but  she  knew  that  his  simple  soul  had  found  its  God, 
and  got  a  comfort  from  Him.  She  felt,  herself,  a 
holiness  about  his  quiet  bedside  and  a  deep  love  and 
knowledge  between  them  that  waited  —  that  could 
wait  —  a  heavenly  utterance. 

"He  don't  talk  about  the  concerns  of  his  soul,"  she 
said  to  the  new  minister,  coming  in  with  ghostly  con 
solation.  "He  never  did.  'T  war  n't  his  way.  He 
ain't  a  man  of  words,  about  anything;  and  if  you  '11 
excuse  my  saying  so,  I  think  it 's  one  of  them  experi 
ences  that  oughtn't  to  be  handled." 


274  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

So  she  shielded  him  and  ministered  to  him;  de 
manding  nothing ;  believing  to  the  last  in  that  which 
was  unseen,  unuttered ;  that  "  there  was  a  good  deal 
in  him  more  than  ever  came  out  in  words ;  "  finding 
so  a  nearness  and  a  mute  communion  of  which  more 
declarative  lives  may  possibly  fail.  Speech  builds  up 
barriers  as  often  as  it  breaks  them  down. 

She  sat  by  him  for  hours ;  sometimes  laying  her  hand 
softly  down  upon  the  coverlet,  and  letting  his  seek  it, 
as  it  always  would ;  and  the  spring  breath  and  music 
in  the  air  spoke  gently  for  them  both ;  and  there  was 
"something  between  them  then,  that  was  more  than 
talk." 

Prudence  Vorse  came  up  and  stopped  at  the  hillside 
farm.  Wealthy  was  simply  glad  and  thankful  to  have 
her.  Not  over  thankful  in  words;  it  was  no  more 
than  she  would  have  done  herself  for  another.  She 
accepted  frankly  the  help  and  companionship ;  and  the 
days  passed  by,  not  without  their  pleasantness,  —  their 
cheer  even,  —  in  this  lonely  mountain  home,  wherein 
one  was  soon  to  be  left,  for  aught  that  was  spoken  of 
yet,  alone,  — utterly. 

Was  that  last  a  true  word?  Was  she  really  to  be 
more  alone  than  heretofore  ?  I  hardly  think  so.  The 
unworded  intercourse  between  this  husband  and  wife 
was  shortly  to  be  lifted  up,  made  greater  and  surer ; 
that  was  all.  For  this  they  must  relinquish  the  out 
ward  community  of  work  and  daily  visible  living.  The 
puny  and  the  narrow  for  the  full  and  grand.  I  think 
Wealthy  felt  it  so,  in  her  untranscendental  way. 

"He  's' going  where  he  '11  have  it  all;  all  we  both 
want,  and  never  got  here;  and  he  won't  leave  me  in 
the  lurch  if  he  can  help  me,  I  know.  'T  would  n't  be 
Jaazaniah  if  he  did.  He  '11  have  me  in  mind  in  the 
old,  still  way;  and  there'll  be  thoughts  between  us. 
He  '11  get  the  start  of  me,  and  that  '11  be  right.  It  '11 
be  my  work  to  keep  on  after  him." 


THE  BOUGH  OFF.  275 

It  was  more  like  a  new  bridal  to  her  than  a  parting 
at  a  grave. 

People  came  up  to  see  her  sometimes,  and  wondered 
at  "the  calm  way  she  took  it."  "But  then,"  they 
said  to  each  other,  "she  couldn't  be  expected  to  feel 
it  as  if  't  was  anybody  else  but  Jaazaniah  Hoogs." 
Neither  her  sorrow  nor  her  joy  could  these  strangers 
intermeddle  with. 

There  came  a  day  that  brought  a  positive  change. 

Jaazaniah  was  too  feeble  this  morning  to  be  lifted  up 
against  his  pillows,  and  look  out  and  watch,  as  was  his 
wont,  the  breaking  day.  They  turned  him  toward  the 
open  window,  and  let  the  breeze  come  in  upon  his  face. 
He  needed  it.  His  breath  was  weak  and  painful.  His 
eye  had  lost  something  of  the  gentle  consciousness  that 
had  dwelt  in  its  expression,  and  only  lighted,  momen 
tarily,  when  it  fell  upon  his  wife.  The  "rough  "  was 
well  off  now.  The  thin  hands  that  had  lain  helpless 
for  so  many  months  had  grown  white  and  tender, 
whiter  and  tenderer  than  Wealthy 's,  now.  The  lines 
of  his  face  had  softened,  and  the  sun  color  had  worn 
off.  "He  looked  so  like  his  mother,"  Wealthy  said. 

As  night  came  on,  the  eyes  were  closed  in  seeming 
unconsciousness;  not  a  sleep;  and  so  he  lay,  without 
other  change,  through  the  hours  till  morning  again; 
the  breath  easier  but  fainter  still,  Wealthy  and  Pru 
dence  watching  by  his  side.  Wealthy  had  had  no  sleep 
the  previous  night,  either. 

"You  'd  better  go  and  lie  down  awhile,  in  the  next 
room, "  said  Prue,  when  she  came  back  from  her  bit  of 
breakfast  and  brought  Wealthy  the  cup  of  tea  she  would 
not  go  away  for.  "I  '11  call  you  if  there  's  any  alter 
ation.  He  isn't  conscious  now,  and  he  won't  miss 
you." 

Wealthy  looked  up.  The  gray  eyes  were  both  keen 
and  deep,  as  they  fastened  themselves  on  Prue's. 


276  THE  GAY  WORTHY  S. 

"You  don't  know  that,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  strong 
tone.  "Neither  you  nor  I  can  tell  what  his  mind  may 
be  about  while  his  body  's  sinking.  I  believe  he  would 
miss  me.  I  believe  it 's  a  comfort  to  him,  having 
me  here.  And  I  shall  stay."  Still  to  the  last  inter 
preting  his  soul  for  him. 

And  so  she  stayed.      Stayed,  and  had  her  reward. 

The  stupor  passed  off  from  him  before  he  died.  He 
lifted  the  eyelids  they  had  thought  would  never  lift 
again.  The  eyes  found  Wealthy 's  face,  as  having 
known  where  to  look  for  it.  There  was  the  strange, 
deep  imploringness  in  them  that  eyes  have,  sometimes, 
taking  their  last  look  of  earth. 

Wealthy  leaned  down  close,  answering  them  witn 
that  in  her  own  which  only  the  dying  eyes  might 
know  of. 

The  pale  lips  tried  to  move.  The  rough  was  nearly 
off  forever  now,  and  the  spirit  dared  to  speak. 

"You  ain't  afraid,  dear?  "  Wealthy  whispered. 

"No,"  came  the  faint  reply.  "It 's  only  going  to 
bed  in  the  dark.  God  knows  when  it 's  time.  He  '11 
wake  me  up  in  the  morning.  Now  I  lay  me  down  to 
sleep,  I  pray  "  — 

"I  pray  the  Lord  thy  soul  to  keep,"  said  Wealthy 
clearly  and  solemnly,  falling  softly  to  her  knees  beside 
the  bed. 

So  their  two  souls  stood  hand  in  hand  before  the 
Father,  in  that  moment  of  their  seeming  separation. 
So  there  was  one  beautiful  uttered  word  between  them 
at  the  last. 

Now,  she  was  newly  wedded  in  the  spirit.  Now,  it 
was  "only  her  work  to  keep  on  after  him." 

She  turned  herself  about  to  her  life  again,  with  this 
thought  at  its  core. 

"I  like  to  have  you  with  me.  Stay  awhile."  She 
said  this  to  Prudence  Vorse  the  day  after  the  funeral. 


THE  ROUGH  OFF.  277 

"I'll  stay  till  you  send  me  off  again,"  said  the 
straightforward  Prue.  "It 's  no  place  for  one  woman 
alone;  but  it 's  a  good  place  for  two.  And  I  've  got 
enough  to  keep  up  my  end,  if  you  like  to  let  it  be  so." 

This  was  all  they  said  about  it ;  and  the  two  women 
henceforth  made  their  home  together. 

"It's  curious  how  pat  things  work  in,  after  all," 
said  the  neighbors.  "There  's  always  a  jog  for  every 
nick.  I  don't  believe  Prudence  Vorse  or  Wealthy 
Hoogs  was  ever  so  snug  in  all  their  lives  before." 

They  were  snug,  and  content.  They  sat  together 
in  the  summer  twilights  on  the  still  mountain-side, 
when  their  day's  work  was  done,  and  sent  their 
thoughts  out,  each  her  own  way,  —  the  one  upon  the 
far,  restless  deep,  the  other  into  the  infinitely  near 
eternal  Peace.  They  both  believed  and  waited. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

MIXED    NEWS;    FROM    HOME. 

"THERE,  now,  I  'm  happy!  but  't won't  last/'  said 
Huldah,  letting  every  limb  droop  and  every  finger  drop 
as  she  sank,  utterly  wearied,  into  her  low  wooden 
rocking-chair  in  the  doorway,  luxuriating  for  an  in 
stant  in  that  beginning  of  rest  that  only  excessive 
weariness  can  know. 

The  young  baby  was  got  to  sleep  at  last,  and  laid  in 
the  cradle  just  within.  The  two  old  babies  had  been 
washed  and  put  to  bed  in  the  little  bedroom  off  the 
kitchen,  built  so  after  the  New  England  fashion.  It 
was  n't  much  of  a  house  to  keep:  only  these  two  rooms 
and  a  bit  of  a  best  room,  at  right  angles ;  but  it  was 
hard  housekeeping  for  all  that,  out  here  upon  a  prairie- 
edge  in  Illinois.  Hard  housekeeping!  and  the  chil 
dren  had  come  fast.  No  wonder  Huldah  felt  the  faint 
blessedness  now  and  then  that  only  breathes  over  one 
with  momentary  relaxation,  when  every  muscle  has 
been  strained  as  on  a  rack. 

"  Gin  out  ?  Well,  set  and  rest, "  said  Eben  cheer 
ily.  He  was  sprinkling  and  folding  for  her  from  the 
big  basket  full  of  clothes,  large  and  little,  that  the 
hard-worked  wife  and  mother  had  got  mostly  through 
the  wash  that  morning,  before  the  nestlings  had  be 
gun  to  peep.  He  did  not  look  unmanly,  either,  the 
stout  farmer,  so  employed.  He  had  gathered  them  all 
up  from  bush  and  grass  and  line,  when  he  came  home 
from  the  early  cornfield  to  his  dinner.  By  and  by, 
when  Huldah  had  "set  and  rested"  for  a  while,  they 
would  stretch  the  sheets  together.  This  they  did  for 


MIXED  NEWS;  FROM  HOME.  279 

old  time's  sake.  There  were  only  two  full-sized  ones, 
and  the  stretching  might  have  been  done  without ;  but 
there  was  never  a  Monday  night  that  they  were  not 
duly  measured,  and  pulled,  and  folded  as  of  old ;  and 
always,  when  it  was  done,  Eben  would  lean  down  to 
his  wife's  ear,  with  the  same  whispered  question, 
"Ain't  you'horry'  yet,  Huldy?  Hadn't  I  better 
have  come  alone  ?  "  And  quoting  still  from  the  old 
homestead  tradition  of  Joanna's  childhood,  Huldah 
would  say,  saucily,  "Hadn't  you  better  hold  your 
tongue?  'When  I  horry,  I  let  'oo  know.'  '  Varied 
in  their  phrasing  sometimes,  question  and  answer;  but 
this  always  the  substance  and  the  joke.  There  are 
some  little  foolish  reiterations  that  grow  sacred. 

Huldah  was  tired.  She  was  that  every  evening  of 
her  life.  But  she  was  not  sorry.  She  sat  looking  out 
under  the  scattered  oaks,  toward  the  east,  —  they  had 
built  their  rude  dwelling  with  its  face  toward  home, 
—  and  watched  the  reflected  lights  that  lingered  there, 
and  remembered  that  it  had  been  dark  an  hour  and 
more  already  in  Hilbury.  Somehow,  her  thoughts 
went  back  there  more  strongly  than  usual,  to-night. 
The  early  spring  weather  took  them  thither.  It  had 
been  one  of  the  harbinger- days  of  the  kindling  year. 
The  air  was  mild  at  the  open  doorway,  and  the  swell 
ing  buds  of  the  oaks  showed  life  in  every  sturdy  limb. 
The  woods  would  be  green  shortly;  and  the  broad 
prairie  jeweled  with  its  flowers.  She  thought  invol 
untarily  of  other  springtimes ;  we  always  do,  when 
this  primal  joy  revisits  us.  She  was  in  a  maze  of 
recollections  and  imaginations  when  Eben  came  to  the 
bottom  of  the  basket,  where  the  sheets  lay. 

"Most  ready,  little  woman?  or  shall  I  roll  'em  up, 
athout  the  pullin'  ?  " 

He  knew  she  would  never  let  him  do  that.  If  she 
kad  "gin  out  "  to  such  degree,  he  would  have  dropped 


280  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

all  in  dismay,  caught  the  horse,  and  galloped  bareback 
two  miles  to  the  nearest  neighbor,  and  four  more  for 
the  doctor. 

So  they  pulled  and  folded,  and  ended  with  the  old 
query  and  reply,  as  I  have  said.  Then  Eben  put  his 
strong  arm  round  the  little  woman's  buxom  waist,  and 
drew  her  to  the  doorway,  and  they  both  stood  there 
and  looked  out  together. 

There  came  the  sound  of  a  horse's  tread  along  the 
turfy  track,  away  up  under  the  trees  in  the  magnifi 
cent  "  oak- opening. " 

"It's  Grueby  coming  home  from  Waterloo, "  said 
Eben.  "He  '11  have  news,  mebbe." 

Neighbor  Grueby  trotted  up,  on  his  heavy  white 
farm-horse,  and  held  out  something  in  his  hand.  A 
letter. 

"For  me?  "  said  Eben,  coming  to  the  horse's  side. 

"You,  or  your  wife;   it  's  all  the  same,  I  reckon." 

"Come  in,  farmer;  won't  ye?  " 

"Never  stop  when  I  bring  letters;  too  much  com 
pany  's  worse  'n  none." 

"What 's  the  news?      An'  how  's  your  folks?  " 

"My  folks  is  all  well,  thank  ye.  There's  your 
paper,  I'd  nigh  forgot  it.  News?  Nothin'  but 
'manifest  destiny,'  and  takin'  in  Texas.  Five  new 
Slave  States!  Sounds  big,  don't  it?  But'  I  reckon, 
Farmer  Hatch,  we  may  hurry  in  't  the  large  end  o' 
the  horn,  an'  have  to  crawl  out  at  the  small  one,  by 
'n'  by!  Manifest  destiny  may  turn  out  sumthin' 
mighty  pretty, — and  then  again  it  mayn't!  Gee 
-ap!" 

Neighbor  Grueby  rode  on,  and  Eben  and  Huldah  sat 
down  together  on  the  great  oak  log,  that  served  in 
place  of  a  door-stone  before  their  dwelling,  to  read 
their  letter. 


MIXED  NEWS;  FROM  HOME.  281 

MBS.   HULDAH  HATCH, 

Care  of  Ebenezer  Hatch,  Esq. 
Graysonville, 

Co.  Illinois. 

"Looks  dreadful  business-like  an'  important,  don't 
it,  Huldy?"  said  Eben,  turning  it  over.  "Esquire! 
Lucky  it  didn't  make  a  misgo  of  it,  superscribed  like 
that !  Here,  —  it  's  yourn !  " 

Huldah  took  it,  and  sat  holding  it,  almost  absently. 

"Well,    ain't  you   goin'    t'    open   it?      'Cause   the 

daylight  's  goin',  an'  the  night-damps  comin'  on,  an' 

I  shall  have  you  with  the  fever  'n'  ager,  nex'  thing,  if 

I  don't  take  care!  " 

"Eben,"  said  Huldah  gravely,  "somethin'  's  hap 
pened  to  home !  " 

"Things  are  allers  happenin' !  The  world  keeps 
turnin'  round.  You  can't  help  that." 

It  was  clear  Eben  was  more  curious  than  anxious. 
So  Huldah  opened  the  letter. 

She  held  it  so  that  Eben  could  look  over,  as  she 
read.  Eben  made  no  demur  at  availing  himself  of  the 
privilege  mutely  offered. 

The  clear,  clerky  hand,  large  and  strong,  showed 
plain,  even  in  the  twilight.  They  read  it  through, 
and  then  Huldah  laid  it  down  upon  her  knees,  and  the 
two  looked  in  each  other's  faces. 

It  was  strangely  mixed  intelligence.  Something  to 
be  sorry  for,  something  to  be  glad  over.  Their  sim 
ple  hearts  hardly  knew  which  feeling  to  give  way  to 
first.  Five  hundred  dollars  was  a  great  deal  of 
money.  More  than  Eben  Hatch  and  Huldah  had  laid 
by  together  before  they  married.  But  then,  the  good 
old  doctor  was  dead. 

"I  suppose  we  mightn't  ever  have  seen  him  again 
in  this  world  if  he  'd  lived  to  the  age  of  Methuselum, " 


282  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

said  Eben  philosophically,  after  a  few  minutes.  "It 's 
a  long  stretch  at  ween  here  an'  Hilbury  hills,  and  I 
don't  expect  hardly  we  '11  ever  fetch  it,  now,  Huldy." 

"It  '11  pay  off  your  mortgage  and  set  you  clear  with 
cousin  Joshaway, "  said  Huldah  thoughtfully.  "And 
help  to  buy  that  pair  of  steers,  besides." 

"They  '11  miss  him  awfully  round  there,  won't 
they?  Fact,  there  's  nothin'  now  to  hender  their  all 
goin',  's  I  see." 

"I  can't  seem  to  feel  it 's  I  oughter, "  said  Huldah, 
with  a  pang  of  conscience.  "I  can't  help  bein'  glad 
for  you,  Eben.  It  's  an  awful  temptation  havin' 
money  left  you.  I  s'pose  it  's  lucky  't  ain't  no  more, 
or  my  heart  would  have  hardened  up  like  old  Pha 
raoh's.  Land  sake,  Eben!  what  do  folks  do  that  git 
their  thousands  ?  " 

"He  meant  we  should  be  glad,  Huldah.  It 's  jest 
what  he  did  it  fur.  But  it's  your  money;  't  ain't 
mine." 

"What  kinder  difference  does  that  make,  I  should 
like  to  know !  "  Huldah  spoke  in  capitals. 

"It  don't  seem  right,  exac'ly,  for  me  to  put  it 
inter  land  an'  stock.  I  might  git  into  diffikelty  an* 
lose  it  all.  It  oughter  be  tied  up  somehow  fer  you  'n' 
the  children." 

"Eben  Hatch !  You  jest  hold  your  tongue !  You  're 
fairly  ridick'lous.  We  got  merried  cause  we  expected 
to  live  together,  did  n't  we  ?  Well,  that 's  the  expec 
tation  I  'm  goin'  on.  I  ain't  agoin'  to  calc'late  on 
any  other  condition  yet  awhile.  I  'm  a  wife;  I  ain't 
a  widder.  If  I  was,  I  know  Whose  business  'twould 
be  to  take  care  o'  me  an'  the  fatherless;  now,  it's 
yourn.  An'  all  we  've  got  is  to  go  to  help.  I  guess 
't  would  be  a  pretty  fixin'  o'  things  to  lay  away  money 
against  you're  used  up  and  gone;  and  to  leave  you 
hampered  up  with  worries  enough  to  bring  it  to  pass ! 
I  don't  want  to  kill  no  two  birds  that  fashion. 


MIXED  NEWS;  FROM  HOME.  283 

More  'n  that,  it  spiles  a  woman  t'  have  property  'f  her 
own.  It 's  queer,  but  a  woman  don't  value  anything 
else,  —  comfort,  or  health,  or  good  looks,  or  what  all ; 
she  lets  'em  all  go,  an'  never  thinks  twice  of  it;  but 
she  can't  stand  havin'  money  separate.  Don't  let  me 
ever  see  it,  Eben,  or  realize  anything  about  it.  I 
could  n't  stand  it,  I  know.  You  'd  never  hear  the 
last  of  it.  I  don't  see  why  the  doctor  did  n't  leave  it 
to  you  straight  out." 

"It  was  left  to  your  mother,  Huldy.  Here  's  the 
clause  in  the  will,  copied  right  off.  'To  Serena 
Brown,  or,  she  not  surviving,  to  her  daughter  Huldah. ' 
Huldy,  that  will  was  made  more  'n  a  dozen  year 
ago!" 

"To  be  sure.  It 's  the  will  my  mother  was  knowin' 
to.  I  never  thought  of  that." 

"Nor  I,  nuther,"  said  Eben  emphatically.  "But 
I  think  on  't  now.  An'  it  jest  reminds  me  of  some- 
thin'  else.  Do  you  remember  that  air  kite-bob, 
Huldy?" 

"That  what?" 

"That  bit  of  paper  that  we  put  our  names  to  in  the 
doctor's  study  the  night  of  the  strawberry  party,  five 
year  ago  ?  " 

"Certain.      But  what 's  that  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"This  is  the  kite,  an'  that  air  was  the  bob;  the  big 
bob  at  the  tail  end,  Huldy,  you  may  depend  on  't. 
An'  if  't  war  n't  never  tied  on,  the  kite  no  business  to 
be  flew  athout  it !  " 

"Well,  what  then?     What  concern  is  it  of  ours?  " 

"I  don't  know,  Huldy.      I  must  think  it  over." 

The  baby  cried,  and  Huldah  went  in.  Eben  stayed 
by  the  threshold,  thinking.  He  came  to  a  conclusion, 
apparently,  at  last;  for  he  said  to  himself,  "That's 
what  I  '11  do.  It 's  workin'  in  the  dark,  and  it  may  n't 
fetch  it ;  for  she  \s  llmnclerin'  sly.  But  it 's  the  best  I 
know  of,  and  I  '11  do  it/' 


284  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

The  result  was  this  letter  that  Jane  Gair  got  ten 
days  after :  — 

MRS.  REUBEN  GAIR,  —  This  is  to  send  our  respects 
to  you,  Huldy's  and  mine,  and  our  sincere  condole- 
ments.  "We  were  sorry  enough  to  hear  of  the  doctor's 
death,  though  he  did  remember  Huldy  so  handsome. 
And  that  is  what  has  set  me  out  to  write  this  letter. 
We  was  notified  to  draw  on  Mr. -Reuben  Gair  at  our 
convenience,  for  the  amount  of  five  hundred  dollars 
willed  to  Huldy  by  the  old  gentleman.  I  say  again  it 
was  a  handsome  thing  of  the  doctor,  and  we  are  as 
thankful  as  we  ought  to  be.  But  there  's  one  thing 
lays  in  the  way  in  my  mind,  and  that  is  this :  whether 
or  no  they  've  found  everything  that  has  to  do  with  the 
settling  up.  This  money  was  left  to  Huldy's  mother, 
showing  it  was  an  old  will,  for  Widow  Brown  died 
more  than  a  dozen  year  ago.  Now,  five  year  ago  me 
and  Huldy  set  our  names  to  a  bit  of  paper  for  the 
doctor,  witnessing  to  it.  It  might  have  had  to  do 
with  the  will,  or  a  piecing  of  it  out,  or  altering  it,  or 
then  again  it  mightn't.  The  doctor  did  n't  show  us 
anything  but  his  name.  It  was  done  the  night  of 
the  strawberry  frolic,  five  year  ago,  when  you  was  up 
to  the  farm,  after  the  folks  was  gone.  /  see  you  up 
and  round  in  the  next  room  afterwards,  and  I  thought 
maybe  the  old  gentleman  might  have  been  a  showing 
it  to  you  first.  Anyway,  I  suppose  you  might  know 
as  well  as  anybody  the  likeliest  place  to  look  for  it. 
And  so,  before  we  do  anything  toward  the  handling 
of  this  money  that  they  say  is  ours,  I  think  it  right  to 
put  you  in  mind  and  tell  you  what  I  know  about  it, 
for  fear  as  if  there  should  turn  out  to  be  anything 
overlooked. 

No  more  at  present  from  yours  truly, 

EBENEZER  HATCH. 


MIXED  NEWS;  FROM  HOME.  285 

The  blood  rushed  quickly  along  her  veins  as  Mrs. 
Gair  first  glanced  this  letter  through.  Then  she  calmed 
herself  and  pondered  on  it.  Eben  had  written  shrewdly. 
He  meant  that  she  should  ponder.  She  wondered  just 
how  much  or  how  little  he  knew  of  this  thing.  Possi 
bly,  all  that  she  did.  "The  doctor  showed  them  no 
thing  but  his  name."  But  Eben  and  Huldah  had  lived 
on  in  the  house  for  six  months  after ;  and  who  could 
say  there  might  not  have  been  opportunities  for  them 
as  well  as  for  herself  ?  "  They  might  have  done  it  as 
well  as  not,  a  hundred  times,  I  dare  say.  And  that 
would  account  for  their  being  so  ready  with  their  in 
formation.  They  're  sure  enough  it  makes  no  differ 
ence  to  them,  for  all  their  show  of  honesty. " 

There  are  persons  to  whom  you  must  demonstrate 
the  impracticability  of  a  meanness  before  you  can  con 
vince  them  that  it  has  not  been  committed.  Could, 
would,  and  should,  are  to  them  indiscriminate  signs 
of  the  potential. 

Assuming  for  granted,  then,  as  the  safest  conclu 
sion,  that  Eben  and  Huldah  knew  it  all,  what  course 
was  she  to  take?  She  could  not  pass  this  over  in 
silence.  She  must  needs  say  or  do  something,  in  ref 
erence  to  it,  or  the  fact  of  her  concealment  would  in 
evitably  appear  and  implicate  her. 

She  took  up  the  letter  again  and  read  it  carefully. 
She  was  alone  in  her  own  room.  Her  husband  had 
gone  to  his  counting-house  for  the  afternoon.  He  had 
given  it  to  her  just  as  he  left  home,  having  forgotten 
it  before. 

There  was  no  help  for  it.  He  knew  she  had  received 
it.  He  knew  it  must  relate  to  the  business  of  the 
legacy.  She  would  have  to  read  it  —  show  it  —  to 
him.  She  dared  not  destroy  it,  and  give  her  own  ver 
sion  in  words.  That,  of  itself,  would  be  strange  and 
suspicious.  Besides,  she  had  done  —  she  had  intended 
—  no  tangible  wrong.  This  would  be  one. 


286  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

"1  see  you  up  and  round  in  the  next  room,  after  ~ 
wards,  and  "  — 

These  words  occupied  the  first  line  of  the  second 
page  of  the  letter.  They  concerned  only  herself.  She 
took  her  scissors  from  the  basket  at  her  side,  and  cut 
the  sheet  across,  carefully.  The  date  and  address, 
upon  the  first  page,  were  safe  below.  She  mutilated 
nothing  that  should  be  left.  This  was  a  happy  thought, 

—  a  fortunate  practicability.     The  letter  read  connect 
edly  and  safely  without  it. 

Then  she  took  up  the  strip  of  paper,  looking  at  those 
emphasized  words  once  more.  "  Aftemvards ."  Then 
he  could  not  know  —  watch  her  as  he  might  have  done 

—  that  she  knew  anything  more   than  he.      Than  he 
professed  to   know.      He   doubtless  suspected,   but  he 
could  prove  nothing,  not  even  to  his  own  certainty. 

Her  course  was  plain. 

Ebenezer  Hatch  was  under  the  impression  that  some 
paper  signed  by  himself  and  wife,  five  years  ago,  might 
be  of  a  testamentary  character.  Had  any  such  been 
found?  This  was  the  purport  and  inquiry  of  the  let 
ter.  She  had  only,  then,  to  submit  it  to  her  husband 
as  executor  under  the  will,  and  ask  the  question. 

Such  a  paper  might,  on  search,  be  found ;  very  well ; 
then  it  must  be ;  then  she  would  have  been  a  very  hon 
est  woman,  and  must  comfort  herself  with  that ;  hon 
esty,  as  well  as  greatness,  may  be  thrust  upon  one.  If 
nothing  should  be  found,  they  might  all  conclude  that 
it  had  been  either  some  minor  transaction,  some  for 
mal  acknowledgment,  in  an  everyday  business  matter, 
whereof  the  record  belonged  in  other  keeping ;  or  that, 
of  whatever  nature,  it  had  been  destroyed.  She,  Jane 
Gair,  was  bound  to  be  no  wiser  than  the  rest.  She 
looked  at  herself  from  the  standpoint  of  others,  and 
judged  herself  by  what  would  be  their  knowledge. 

And  all  the  while  those  few  lines  —  that  half -page 


MIXED  NEWS;  FROM  HOME.  287 

of  her  father's  own  handwriting  —  stood  clear  in  her 
memory.  She  knew  —  she  only,  of  any  living  — 
what  he  had  once  meant,  at  least,  to  do.  But  hers 
was  a  secret  knowledge ;  his  had  been  a  secret  inten 
tion;  if  he  canceled  it  afterward,  what  right  had  she, 
even  were  it  possible  without  shame  and  self-disgrace, 
to  betray  a  private,  transient  purpose,  never  confided 
to  her,  learned  only  by  an  accident,  and  that  no  exist 
ing  record  could  substantiate?  She  wished  heartily, 
even  with  a  resentfulness,  that  the  accident  had  never 
happened.  She  felt  ill  used  of  fate,  that  she  had  been 
led  into  this  annoying  cognizance.  Somehow,  she  was 
forever  being  forced  to  feel  responsible,  when  she 
would  rather  far  leave  all  to  its  own  working. 

"If  he  canceled  it!"  That  hidden  paper  might 
alone  reveal  whether  he  did  or  no.  And  that  she  could 
not  tell  them  of.  She  had  no  right  to  know  of  it,  she 
could  not  explain  such  knowledge.  It  might  be  nothing, 
and  she  might  go  all  her  life  with  a  self-reproach  that 
had  no  foundation.  There  it  must  lie,  and  she  must 
doubt,  —  she  had  really  made  herself  think  she  did 
doubt,  — unless  they  found  it.  She  almost  hoped  they 
would.  Almost,  but  not  wholly,  after  all,  else  she 
could  have  bidden  Reuben  search  well  the  old  papers 
in  the  case  where  they  had  found  the  will;  she  might 
have  managed  to  be  with  him ;  she  might  have  redis 
covered  it  herself.  She  let  herself  slide,  half  involun 
tary,  into  deeper  wrong ;  she  held  her  peace ;  she  made 
herself  passive.  Her  very  soul  lied  unto  itself  in  its 
false,  bewildered  reasoning;  that  is  the  inherent  retri 
bution  of  false  souls. 

Reuben  read  the  letter  and  went  to  Hilbury.  To 
his  question,  "Did  your  father  ever  mention  anything 
of  the  sort  to  you?  "  Jane  had  answered,  "Nothing." 
Jane  Gair  had  never  told  a  lie. 

She  stayed  at  home.      Say  was  not  well,  it  was  out 


288  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

of  her  power  to  go.  The  thing  had  been  settled  for 
her;  she  must  wait. 

Up  at  the  old  house  they  wondered  at  Eben's  com 
munication,  —  Joanna  and  Rebecca  and  Reuben.  Pru 
dence  Vorse  had  already  gone  over  to  the  Hoogs's  when 
this  happened.  Then  they  looked  over  again  all  the 
miscellaneous  papers  in  the  doctor's  tall  secretary-desk, 
that  held  the  papers  of  generations.  They  emptied 
its  pigeon-holes ;  ran  over  files  of  bills,  packets  of  let 
ters  ;  examined  even  the  bundles  of  yellow  documents 
in  the  panel  cupboard ;  opened  again  the  ancient  letter- 
case  where  the  will  had  been ;  sorted  the  contents  of  its 
larger  pocket,  that  told  the  tales  of  old  absences  and 
intimacies  and  courtships ;  laid  them  back  reverently, 
and  found  nothing. 

Greater  secrets  than  this  have  lain  as  shallowly  con 
cealed.  Men  have  walked  for  generations  over  hidden 
treasures  that  a  spade-plunge  would  unearth;  murder 
screens  its  crimson  stain  with  flimsy  cover,  and  moves 
unchallenged  among  the  living ;  science  stumbles  over 
truth  that  waits  to  be  unveiled;  invention  lays  her 
finger  alongside  the  spring  she  seeks  to  touch,  and 
misses  it.  All  things  lie  near  enough,  if  we  knew  but 
how  to  look. 

Mr.  Gair  answered  Eben's  letter. 

MR.  HATCH. 

Dear  Sir,  —  Yours  of  the  — th  ultimo  was  duly  re 
ceived.  A  reexamination  of  all  the  papers  left  by 
the  late  Dr.  Gayworthy  has  been  made,  and  nothing 
of  the  description  you  refer  to  has  been  brought  to 
light.  We  can  only  conclude  that  it  was  either  not 
of  a  nature  to  affect  the  disposal  of  his  estate,  or  that 
he  saw  fit  at  some  subsequent  time  to  destroy  it. 

The  legacy  to  Mrs.  Hatch  lies  ready,  subject  to 
your  draft.  I  am,  etc., 

Your  Obt.  Servt.,          REUBEN  GAIR. 


MIXED  NEWS;  FROM  HOME.  289 

Mrs.  Gair  said  to  herself,  when  her  husband  told 
her  of  the  thorough  search  and  its  result :  — 

"Of  course,  whatever  it  was,  they  must  have  found 
it  now.  And  it  turned  out  to  be  nothing;  just  as  I 
supposed." 

So  she  told  herself,  asking  no  questions;  and  made 
believe  to  be  quite  innocent  and  easy  in  her  mind. 
Laying  something  asleep  there  which  would  surely 
waken  none  the  less  at  intervals  her  whole  life  long. 

She  made  the  most  now  of  her  mess  of  pottage. 
She  flourished  in  her  fashionable  mourning,  and  in  her 
self-conscious  dignity  as  an  heiress.  She  fancied  all 
Selport  knew  that  this  was  what  her  crape  meant. 

Now  if  Mrs.  Topliff  noticed  whether  it  were  black 
or  blue,  it  was  as  much  as  she  did.  As  to  the  death 
it  stood  for,  it  scarcely  entered  into  her  ideas  that  peo 
ple  of  that  sort  had  fathers  to  lose. 

And  forty  thousand  dollars !  Why,  if  she  had  even 
heard  of  it,  what  would  that  have  been  in  the  ears 
of  the  woman  who  inherited  a  quarter  of  a  million; 
whose  husband  was  reputed  worth  a  quarter  of  a  mil 
lion  more  ? 

Poor  Jane  Gair !  She  bit  the  ashes  of  her  delusion, 
and  knew  not  even  that  they  were  ashes.  She  put  the 
price  of  sin  in  her  bosom,  and  only  the  evil  spirit  that 
had  tempted  and  betrayed  her  knew  that  it  was  turn 
ing  already  to  dust  and  withered  leaves. 

Ebenezer  Hatch  was  as  fully  persuaded  as  ever  that 
there  had  keen  something  to  find  out,  if  he  could  only 
"have  fetched  it." 

And  all  went  on  their  several  ways,  and  these  things 
bided  their  time. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

MUSIC    BETWEEN    THE    ACTS. 

THERE  is  a  music  that  only  comes  in  the  pauses  of 
life.  When  the  deafening  pulsations  of  quick  joy, 
and  keen  sorrow,  and  restless  uncertainty,  and  eager 
hope,  are  laid  asleep  for  a  while,  and  nothing  stirs 
them.  When  the  every-day  current  of  a  common  liv 
ing  bears  us  on,  and  the  weeks  and  months  and  years 
glide  by,  each  one  with  a  look  so  like  the  last  that  we 
forget  to  count  them,  or  to  remember  that  we  are 
growing  old.  When  the  whir  of  the  loom  that  weaves 
our  life-story  grows  monotonous ;  when  the  shuttle 
runs  quietly,  and  makes  no  leaps  that  throw  up  vivid 
threads  in  bright,  irregular  spaces,  flashing  out,  so,  the 
design  that  makes  it  individual.  When,  in  and  out, 
the  fibres  intertwine,  and  mix  a  common,  homespun 
web,  like  all  the  rest  around  us. 

There  is  music  between  the  acts ;  when  the  elements 
of  whatever  in  our  lives  might  combine  into  great  ut 
terances  and  sweeps  of  mighty  melody  —  into  won 
derful  chorals  and  harmonies,  if  the  divine  touch  were 
given  —  breathe  low,  one  to  another,  whispering, 
only:  We  are  here;  we  are  waiting.  It  is^an  ^Eolian 
thrill,  that  tells  of  all  possible  ecstasies  and  passions ; 
yet  is  sweet  and  calm;  a  present  peace;  a  repose,  it 
may  be,  after  wails  and  discords  that  have  gone  over 
us. 

The  simplest  life  knows  this ;  perhaps  it  is  only  to 
a  simple  life  it  comes.  It  came  to  the  home  in  Hil- 
bury,  between  the  hope  and  pain  of  youth,  and  what- 


MUSIC  BETWEEN  THE  ACTS.  291 

ever  ripened  of  these,  later;  it  was  the  gentle  ripening 
itself  as  it  went  on. 

Let  me  show  you  if  I  can. 

It  is  twelve  years  since  our  quiet  chronicle  began. 
The  old  Gayworthy  mansion  stands  as  it  stood  then, 
preeminent,  in  its  traditional  mellow  tint,  among  the 
dusky-red  farmhouses  about  it.  There  is  little  altered 
here,  in  the  Centre;  where  the  old  spire  rises  as  it 
rose,  not  twelve,  only,  but  a  hundred  years  agone; 
where  the  churchyard,  gray  with  stone  and  green  with 
turf,  holds  its  century  of  dead ;  where  the  farms  lie 
out,  field  beside  field,  as  they  lay  when  the  Gayworthy 
house  was  fresh  and  new ;  owned  in  the  same  names, 
mostly,  even ;  or,  if  not,  still  spoken  of  by  the  same 
old  family  titles  wherewith  they  had  first  been  chris 
tened. 

Changes  had  gone  on  all  around,  had  crept  within 
the  very  township;  down  at  the  Bridge,  the  quiet, 
primitive  neighborhood  was  gone ;  and  the  gentle  sing 
ing  of  the  river  to  itself  was  gone,  — lost;  and  the 
green  forest  that  swept  its  robe  down  to  the  very  bor 
ders  of  the  stream  was  gone;  at  least,  had  had  its 
skirts  cut,  like  the  old  woman  in  the  rhyme,  till, 
whether  it  were  itself  or  not,  like  the  same  bewildered 
ancient,  it  could  scarcely  tell;  and  in  place  of  all  this 
was  a  great,  whizzing,  roaring,  whirling,  crashing, 
crowded,  dusty  factory  village  grown  up ;  a  conglom 
eration  of  steam,  and  wheels,  and  fire,  and  shrieks ; 
whence  the  railroad  reached  out,  east  and  west,  its 
iron  length,  grasping  a  great  city,  a  hundred  miles 
away,  at  either  end. 

But  this  was  more  than  three  miles  distant,  still ;  it 
would  hardly  creep  this  way  yet  awhile ;  it  might  go 
up  and  down  the  river  along  the  rattling  vertebras  of 
that  backbone  of  iron,  which  joint  after  joint  stretched 
itself  those  hundreds  of  miles  up  and  down  the  coun- 


292  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

try,  a  marvelous  inception  of  growth  that  would  throw 
out  its  limbs  afterward,  and  develop  bit  by  bit  its 
huge  skeleton,  clasping  in  its  prone  embrace  whole 
States. 

As  yet  the  old  Gayworthy  farm  lay  in  its  primeval 
quietude,  save  for  the  far-rending  echo  of  the  steam- 
whistle  that  divided  the  air  sharply  at  certain  inter 
vals,  and  the  rumble  that  came  after  through  the  hills, 
telling  of  that  strange,  swift  intercourse,  right  and 
left,  with  the  busy  world  that  lay  about  its  stillness. 

And  the  two  sisters  lived  here  still.  Changed  little 
by  the  years,  any  more  than  the  old  home,  but  exactly 
because  so  little  changed,  grown,  like  the  old  home 
and  its  neighborhood,  to  seem,  if  brought  suddenly  to 
light  and  contrast,  somewhat  behind  the  times  they 
lived  in. 

Rebecca  was  thirty-one ;  Joanna  just  beyond  her  in 
years;  they  had  crossed  the  line  of  youth  into  old 
maidenhood;  nobody  looked  any  longer  for  change  in 
them ;  they  would  count  their  years  out  as  people  did 
here  among  the  hills ;  they  would  be  the  "  old  Miss 
Gayworthys, "  as  Joanna  had  prophesied  to  herself. 

Rebecca  had  the  same  sweet,  saint-like  face,  wanting 
something,  perhaps,  that  a  broader  life  might  have 
kindled  in  it.  Her  ideas  also  had  their  gentle,  limited 
range,  wakening  to  the  touch  of  all  small,  local  sympa 
thies  ;  cramped  and  narrow,  people  of  larger  interests 
might  say ;  yet  this  want,  this  cramp,  were  only  earth 
ward  ;  she  had  a  secret  outlook  toward  the  infinite ; 
on  the  side  of  God  her  soul  lay  open,  and  her  thought 
rayed  wide. 

She  had  never  changed  the  fashion  of  her  hair,  even , 
put  straightly  back,  a  little  thinner  it  was  now,  over 
the  forehead,  and  turned  up  behind  in  the  same  simple 
knot.  Prim?  Yes,  perhaps  so,  but  sweet  also,  as  a 
late  white  summer  pink,  with  no  profusion  or  set-off 


MUSIC  BETWEEN  THE  ACTS.  293 

about  it,  only  profuse  in  the  fragrant  life  that  scatters 
from  it,  viewlessly,  and  makes  a  blessedness  around. 

Joanna  was  odd,  quick,  trenchant,  and  emphatic,  as 
of  old ;  full  of  little  merry  sarcasms  and  abruptnesses ; 
you  would  think  her  life  lay  in  looking  on  at  life ;  she 
had  her  own  secret,  —  a  living  secret  still,  —  leavening 
all  that  was  unseen,  and  shaping  her  inmost  experience 
and  growth  as  God  saw  them.  She  looked  bright  and 
young,  younger  than  Rebecca,  even,  who  had  the  youth 
of  seraphs,  that  is  eternally  old  also;  Rebecca  had 
never  been  young  with  the  mere  bloom  of  earth. 

Another  of  Joanna's  self-prophecies  also  had  come 
true;  she  "grew  fat;"  not  obese,  but  round  and  jolly. 
It  "  turned  to  that, "  as  she  had  said.  She  might  as 
well  be  merry  and  quick ;  it  was  the  only  outside  bear 
ing  for  her.  Pining  melancholy  had  nothing  to  do 
with  her  constitution.  Her  heart  might  break,  but  it 
would  be  more  likely  to  end  with  a  dropsy  than  an 
atrophy;  on  the  whole,  she  preferred  to  keep  herself 
healthy ;  this  good  sense  also  was  constitutional. 

The  old  house  was  a  pleasant  place  to  come  to  under 
the  rule  of  these  two.  It  was  quaintly  and  cheerily 
ordered.  There  were  plenty  and  kindness  there ;  there 
was  speckless  purity;  you  had  a  feeling  that  is  only 
had  in  such  old  houses,  that  anything  whatever  might 
come  forth  for  delectation  from  its  fragrant  cupboards, 
its  teeming  presses.  All  Hilbury  was  glad  when  the 
sisters  gave  a  tea-party;  the  art  of  strawberry  short 
cake  had  not  been  forgotten ;  there  was  many  another 
dainty  art  that  had  its  season.  There  was  no  need  or 
caprice  of  sickness  that  was  not  sure  to  be  supplied 
from  hence. 

Old  neighbor  Hartshorne  —  living  still,  but  very 
old  and  feeble  —  knew  these  dainties  well.  Wine  of 
elderberry,  blackberry,  and  currant ;  jellies  of  marvel 
ous  strength-giving ;  dishes  of  dexterous  compounding, 


294  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

that  Mary  Makepeace  could  only  lift  her  eyelids  over, 
came  like  fairy  gifts  to  the  old  man's  board  and  store. 
Not  officiously,  or  overburdeningly ;  there  were  kind 
nesses  accepted,  even  asked  for,  in  return.  Gabriel 
came  over  in  the  twilights,  and  went  down  the  fields 
and  talked  their  farming  over  with  them ;  he  rented 
some  lots  that  they  did  not  care  to  use;  he  had  man's 
counsel  and  a  ready  hand  for  them,  in  all  the  emer 
gencies  of  their  feminine  administration.  It  was  a 
"comfortable  friendliness."  Was  there  ever  a  sigh  in 
the  heart  of  either  that  this  was  all  ? 

Sarah  Gair  waked  one  spring  morning  —  blissfully 
happy  for  the  hour  —  in  the  old  "red  room"  at  Hil- 
bury.  She  had  come  at  night  when  it  was  too  late  to 
take  in  all  the  familiar  pleasantness.  She  opened  her 
eyes  now  almost  at  the  first  dawn,  listening  with  a  joy 
of  abundant  content  and  satisfaction,  to  the  crowing  of 
the  cocks  from  farm  to  farm.  She  had  come  to  stay 
for  the  summer  with  the  aunts.  Further  than  this 
summer  —  away  from  it  —  back  or  forward  —  Say  did 
not  care  to  look.  It  held  in  it  a  concentration  of  all 
delight  and  hope.  Other  hopes  might  wait ;  anxieties 
and  disappointments,  for  even  at  nineteen  she  had 
these,  were  set  by.  It  was  "music  between  the  acts 
of  life  "  for  her.  This  summer  was  an  aeon. 

She  had  left  school  the  summer  before.  She  had 
been  a  winter  "in  society;"  the  society  uncertain  and 
sporadic,  that  Mrs.  Gair  had  scrambled  into  relation 
with. 

Say  had  had  a  glimpse  of  fashionable  life ;  not  a  full, 
long,  everyday  look,  as  some  girls  had,  she  knew ;  just 
enough  to  make  her  feel  she  only  half  lived;  just 
enough  to  make  her  doubt  whether  she  most  longed  for 
more,  or  hated  it  altogether.  There  were  wearisome, 
companionless  hours ;  her  mother  was  capricious,  irrita 
ble;  Say  felt  she  valued  her  more  for  the  opinion  she 


MUSIC  BETWEEN  THE  ACTS.  295 

could  win  of  others,  than  for  her  intrinsic  dearness  to 
her  as  her  child.  This  contradictoriness  —  this  word 
less  disappointment,  this  lack  of  sympathy  —  checked 
her  exuberant  youth ;  thwarted  its  life ;  made  her  be 
gin,  as  the  spring  came  on,  to  look  pale  and  thin. 

She  was  to  go  somewhere.  She  begged  for  Hilbury, 
and  the  kind  aunts.  Her  mother  said  the  seashore; 
she  wanted  to  keep  in  the  world's  track;  to  go  where 
its  leaders  went.  Say  struggled  against  this  decision ; 
she  wanted  the  sweet  country  air;  she  didn't  want  to 
dress  and  worry ;  and  her  father  took  her  part.  For 
the  hope  of  the  bloom  that  should  come  back  against 
the  winter,  Mrs.  Gair  had  yielded ;  for  this,  and  also 
because  she  must,  when  once  her  husband  said  the 
thing.  She,  Jane,  would  go  to  the  beach;  the  Top- 
liffs  and  Semples  were  to  be  there;  she  bore  ever  in 
remembrance  the  proverb  that  out  of  sight  is  out  of 
mind.  She  would  keep  herself  in  sight,  would  keep  a 
place  warm  for  Say ;  the  child  would  get  tired  of  the 
woods  and  hay-fields  by  and  by,  and  come  down. 

For  herself  she  hardly  ever  went  to  Hilbury  now. 
The  keen  air  of  the  hills  no  longer  agreed  with  her. 
It  was  too  bracing,  she  said.  Mrs.  Gair  had  grown 
nervous  and  delicate.  The  twelve  years  past  had 
changed  her  greatly  in  health  and  appearance.  Her 
face  was  no  longer  round  and  unlined ;  it  was  graven 
with  a  deeper  record  than  that  of  twelve  ordinary  years, 
lived  as  she  had  seemed  to  live  them.  She  was  full  of 
whims ;  a  great  many  old  habitudes  had  become  impos 
sible  to  her.  This  of  going  to  Hilbury  was  one ;  she 
had  "never  been  able  to  care  for  it  since  her  father's 
death  had  changed  all,  so;"  and  now,  the  mountain 
winds  must  be  eschewed.  There  was  truly  something 
in  the  air  that  had  made  the  place  unhealthful  to  her; 
there  was  a  taint  for  her,  in  the  old  home ;  a  dead 
thing  lay  there  hidden  away  that  she  only  knew;  a 


296  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

reminder  of  corruption  came  with  every  breath;  to 
none  else,  only  to  her.  She  thought  she  had  forgotten 
this ;  she  had  laid  it  back  years  ago  out  of  sight,  and 
turned  away  from  it,  telling  herself  it  was  nothing. 
She  knew,  none  the  less,  that  she  should  remember,  if 
she  let  herself  glance  back.  She  pushed  all  recollec 
tion  from  her;  she  would  not  exhume  the  old  doubt 
and  argue  over  again  what  she  had  once  settled ;  her 
whole  life  was  a  resistance ;  a  restless  seeking  for 
absorption  in  other  things.  And  so,  it  fretted  her 
away.  And  by  her  side,  shadowed  also  by  the  cloud 
of  the  unknown  evil,  a  chill  upon  her  life,  she  knew 
not  whence,  grew  her  young  daughter ;  longing  for  a 
fullness  of  joy  and  warmth  and  love,  and  finding  it 
not. 

Mr.  Gair  was  wholly  occupied  with  business. 
"Your  money  or  your  life  "  is  the  daily  challenge  on 
the  world's  highway,  to  such  as  he.  One  or  the  other 
must  be  given  up.  Mr.  Gair  made  money,  and  gave 
up  his  life,  —  the  best  of  it.  He  loved  his  child,  — 
he  labored  for  her ;  it  was  all  for  her ;  so  it  was  all 
for  her  that  Jane  had  sinned  the  old,  secret,  silent 
sin,  that  ate  her  soul  away,  to-day;  and  the  child, 
meanwhile,  was  alone  in  all  the  world.  Orphaned,  by 
her  parents'  very  side. 

There  was  pure,  perfect  delight  for  her,  only  here 
in  Hilbury. 

She  woke  there,  this  bright  spring  morning,  in  the 
old  "red  room."  She  lay,  looking  and  listening. 
Listening  to  the  sounds  of  arousal  about  the  country 
side;  the  far-off  sounds  that  make  it  beautiful  to  lis 
ten,  where  such  may  be  heard.  In  the  city,  there 
was  only  the  rumble  and  clatter  just  under  her  win 
dows  ;  this  smothered  in  upon  her  heavily,  by  the  close 
brick  walls ;  now  and  then  the  striking  of  a  clock,  01 
the  chiming  of  a  bell  a  few  streets  off.  Here  there 


MUSIC  BETWEEN  THE  ACTS.  297 

was  all  the  faint,  sweet  music  that  comes  floating  over 
breadth  of  field  and  forest;  the  wind  surging  in  the 
great  trees;  the  whistle  of  the  ploughman,  and  his 
cheery  call  to  the  oxen,  beginning  their  day's  work 
away  over  there  where  the  brown  furrows  lay  like  a 
fine-lined  carpet  upon  the  sunny  side-hill;  the  distant 
singing  of  woodbirds,  and  wandering  notes  from  high 
up  overhead;  the  flutter  and  chirp  in  the  boughs  close 
by ;  the  voice  and  stir  of  domestic  creatures  about 
house  and  farm-yard ;  there  were  only  these,  in  all  the 
air;  no  din  and  bustle  of  more  complicated  life  to 
drown  them ;  they  came  in  pleasant  alternation,  and 
succession,  and  blending,  telling  of  space,  and  joy, 
and  freedom.  They  ministered  to  Say's  young,  ask 
ing  spirit. 

What  her  eyes  rested  on  was  as  simple,  and  pleas 
ant,  and  quaint,  as  peculiar  to  the  place,  as  its  out 
door  tones.  The  faint  crimson  of  the  stained  walls; 
the  black  stenciled  diamonds  of  their  border,  follow 
ing  around,  up  and  down  and  over  panels  and  frames ; 
the  antique  -  patterned  red  -  and  -  white  chintz  that 
flounced  the  dressing-table,  and  draperied  the  win 
dows,  and  covered  the  great  easy-chair,  that  Say  could 
creep  from  side  to  side  in,  and  hung  about  the  high- 
framed  bedstead;  the  old  "mourning-piece"  of  floss- 
work,  over  the  mantel,  that  some  great-great-aunt  had 
once  achieved ;  the  yet  more  ancient  embroidery  that 
companioned  it,  — the  "Arms  of  Gay  worthy  of  York 
shire  ;  "  these  Say  never  tired  of ;  they  rested  her. 
Here  was  something  that  had  grown  with  years ;  that 
had  been  as  she  saw  it  now,  for  lives '-lengths.  There 
was  no  hint  of  restlessness  nor  striving;  nothing  "bran'- 
new, "  as  there  was  in  Selport.  She  did  not  make 
that  analysis  of  what  she  felt,  though;  she  only  lay 
and  drank  it  in  at  ey«s  and  ears,  and  felt  deliciously 
happy. 


298  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

The  door  from  the  great  kitchen-chamber,  into 
which  half  a  dozen  rooms  opened,  moved  softly  ajar. 
It  was  round  behind  the  foot-curtains,  and  Say  could 
not  see. 

"Auntie?"  she  said,  with  a  bright  little  ripple  of 
gladness  in  her  voice.  "Which  auntie?  " 

She  knew  the  soft  step,  an  instant  after,  before 
Aunt  Rebecca's  gentle  eyes  looked  in  upon  her, 
through  the  flung-back  curtains  at  the  side. 

Aunt  Rebecca  had  on  a  striped  dimity  "short- 
gown,"  old-fashioned  for  "  dressing- sack ;"  she  car 
ried  a  pile  of  fresh,  sweet-smelling  damask  on  her 
arm. 

"  Your  towels,  dear ;  I  thought  I  could  come  in 
softly ;  did  I  wake  you  ?  "  The  truth  was,  Aunt  Re 
becca  could  not  wait  any  longer  for  her  morning  look 
at  the  treasure  that  had  been  put  away  over  night,  in 
the  "red  room."  She  loved  little  Say  —  who  would 
be  always  little  Say  to  her  —  as  only  those  gentle 
souls  who  never  turn  their  love  on  self,  and  who  have 
few  immediate  objects,  can  lavish  their  hearts  upon 
such  few. 

"Oh,  I  was  wide  awake,"  said  Say;  "and  have 
been  for  this  great  while.  An  hour  or  two.  Oh, 
Aunt  Becsie,  it  is  so  lovely  here !  And  I  'm  to  stay 
all  —  summer !  "  The  words  came  forth  on  a  long 
breath  of  happiness. 

Aunt  Becsie  stooped  and  kissed  the  bright,  eager 
lips. 

"Get  up  when  you  like,  Say,  and  begin  to  enjoy  it. 
There  are  wheat-cakes  and  maple  syrup  for  your  break 
fast.  Shall  I  hang  these  away?  "  There  was  a  pile 
of  dresses  over  the  sides  and  back  of  the  groat  chair, 
that  had  lain  above  the  linen,  in  one  of  the  two  'Jeej, 
trunks  Say  had  brought  up  to  Hilbury. 

"I  '11  keep  that  pink  wrapper,  Auntie,  to  put  on/' 


MUSIC  BETWEEN  THE  ACTS.  299 

It  was  a  dainty  thing,  with  its  rose-colored  sprays 
dropped  over  a  white  ground,  its  narrow  ruffles,  ital- 
i an- ironed,  and  its  open  skirt.  Say  always  wore  her 
prettiest  —  not  her  finest  —  at  Hilbuiy.  In  the  first 
place,  nothing  else  seemed  to  suit  the  freshness  and 
bloom  about  her;  then  she  loved  dearly  to  be  one  of 
the  pretty  things  in  the  world ;  was  that  wrong  ? 
And  then,  the  dear  aunts  always  looked  at  her  so 
fondly  and  admiringly;  and  the  country  people  turned 
after  her  as  they  met  her  by  the  way,  and  stopped 
talking,  and  clustered  nearer  as  she  came  up  into  the 
church  porch  of  a  Sunday.  Perhaps  it  was  weak,  — 
even  reprehensible ;  but  I  will  tell  the  whole  truth  of 
Say ;  she  had  a  liking  for  this,  —  the  young,  bright 
thing,  in  her  teens.  Nobody  cared  for  her  so  in  Sel- 
port ;  she  felt  no  such  warmth  around  her  there.  She 
might  be  fresh  and  dainty,  —  though  of tener  she  was 
costly  and  elegant,  — that  was  her  mother's  mistake; 
but  there  was  something  else  demanded  that  she  did 
not  reach ;  that  she  was  at  once  too  shy  and  too 
spontaneous  to  attain.  Girls  not  half  so  sweet  in  their 
girlishness  were  more  certain  of  themselves,  had  more 
style,  were  more  admired;  she  hovered  about,  of  a 
circle,  but  not  fairly  in  it ;  this  was  what  her  mother 
had  got  for  her,  bargaining  away,  in  her  behalf,  all 
else ;  she  felt  little  in  her  own  eyes,  often ;  her  very 
mother  undervalued  her,  she  knew,  when  she  stood 
alone,  for  ten  minutes,  at  a  crowded  party;  it  was  all 
a  conscious,  eager  wrestling  after  what  must  come 
unlabored  for,  to  be  of  any  worth ;  here  in  Hilbury, 
there  was  a  place  ready  for  her,  in  all  eyes  and  hearts. 
She  was  ten  times  as  "stylish,"  even  as  the  world 
pronounces  upon  style,  up  here  among  the  hills  — 
she  wore  her  graceful  robes  here  with  a  better  air  of 
grace  —  than  in  the  city.  Because  the  doubt  and  the 
constraint  —  the  self-recollection,  save  as  a  pleasant, 


300  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

abiding  sense  of  surely  pleasing  —  were  all  gone. 
There  was  no  place  to  achieve,  no  effect  to  aim  at ; 
both  were  certain.  She  had  here  the  very  thing  that 
gave  tone  to  the  bearing  of  those  "born  to  it  "  in  the 
metropolitan  aristocracy.  If  her  mother  could  have 
seen  her  so,  she  would  have  wondered  at  her  ease,  her 
manner.  —  which  was  only  no  manner ;  would  have 
wondered  that  she  could  not  bring  it  with  her  to  the 
town.  She  forgot,  or  never  understood,  how  she  had 
trained  her  in  her  town-life  to  a  diseased  anxiety  and 
self-distrust. 

And  Say  liked  it  all ;  she  forgot  the  old  feeling  of 
failure  and  of  second-rate-ness;  she  found  herself  of 
consequence.  Not  that  she  cared  to  be  first,  after  all; 
it  was,  as  I  said,  to  be  one  of  the  things  in  the  world 
that  make  its  brightness  and  its  beauty,  and  to  be  sure 
of  it ;  to  be  set  among  them,  not  set  aside.  It  is  not 
natural  to  the  young  to  sigh  for  preeminence ;  that,  to 
them,  would  be  a  solitude.  They  gravitate  to  each 
other;  they  tend  to  troops  and  bevies;  it  is  the  more 
the  merrier,  always;  only  there  must  be  one  pulse 
among  them  all ;  a  true  community.  They  like  uni 
forms  and  bandings;  seats  in  rows;  marches  in  file; 
dances  in  ring;  songs  in  chorus.  When  Say,  in  her 
fanciful  childhood,  had  used  to  endow  all  insensible 
life  with  the  personality  of  fable,  —  when  she  had  her 
myths  of  trees  and  flowers  and  stones,  and  dreamed 
what  it  would  be  like  to  have  been  created  one  of 
these,  her  thought  was  always  of  one  among  a  many ; 
she  would  not  have  been  a  palm,  or  an  aloe,  or  a  cereus, 
or  any  grand  and  solitary,  century-blooming  thing,  if 
she  had  known  of  such ;  she  looked  out  on  the  early 
summer  fields,  and  saw  them  golden  with  the  butter 
cups,  springing  up,  closely,  on  their  slender,  elastic 
stalks,  and  nodding  gayly  to  each  other  in  the  morning 
sunshine,  saying,  cheerily,  "Here  we  are!  "  and  she 


MUSIC  BETWEEN  THE  ACTS.  301 

would  have  been  one  of  them ;  one  of  the  midmost  on 
a  hillside ;  she  pitied  the  poor,  scattered  things  away 
out  under  the  walls.  They  were  just  as  golden,  to  be 
sure ;  but  how  could  they  feel  it  so  ?  Any  more  than 
she  could,  on  the  outskirts  of  the  "good  society  "  of 
Selport  ?  She  did  not  care  to  be  a  double  buttercup, 
even  here  in  Hilbury ;  she  did  not  wear  her  finest,  as 
I  said.  But  she  made  herself  fresh,  and  pretty,  and 
dainty ;  she  had  nothing  else  to  do ;  and  she  found  it 
worth  her  while ;  love  and  admiration  gathered  round 
her;  and  she  liked  it.  She  gave  it  back;  the  Hilbury 
girls  were  fresh,  and  bright,  and  heartsome ;  quick  and 
intelligent,  too;  and  individual,  as  they  were  not  in 
the  city;  nice  and  delicate,  though  simple,  of  array, 
also,  in  the  hours  when  she  saw  them;  nicer  and  more 
delicate  for  her  being  there,  — though  she  never 
thought  of  that.  It  was  the  season  in  Hilbury  when 
Sarah  Gair  came  up.  She  brought  fashions  with  her, 
and  did  not  notice  how  they  followed  her  appearing. 
She  only  thought  there  was  not  so  great  a  difference, 
after  all,  between  these  "  countrified "  folk,  as  her 
mother  called  them,  and  the  people  in  the  town.  The 
clever  adaptiveness  which  reproduced  and  reflected  new 
ideas  was  so  prompt  that  it  did  not  seem  reflective  but 
simultaneous.  The  decisive  touches  and  amendments 
to  half  the  summer  apparel  in  Hilbury  were  made  in 
the  first  fortnight  after  Say  unpacked  her  pretty  ward 
robe  there. 

The  large,  pleasant  breakfast-room,  where  the  east 
erly  rays  struggled  in,  aslant,  through  the  cherry- 
boughs,  seemed  full  of  spring  bloom  when  Say  carne 
down,  in  her  rose-colored  wrapper;  and  she  sat  there, 
when  she  had  done  eating  wheat-cakes  and  amber 
syrup,  in  the  delicious  after-breakfast  feeling  that  one 
has,  when  the  long,  fair  day  lies  all  before  one  to 
choose  one's  pleasure  in. 


302  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

Aunt  Rebecca  washed  the  china.  Say  offered  to 
take  a  towel ;  but  Rebecca  did  not  care  to  have  her. 
They  had  their  own  way,  here,  of  doing  things,  and 
one  of  these  was  not  the  fashion  of  taking  two  to  do 
what  one  could  accomplish  better  alone. 

"Plenty  of  towels  and  scalding  water,  and  no  stand 
ing  to  drain,"  that  was  the  rule.  One  thing  taken 
out  at  a  time,  from  the  steaming  tub,  and  rubbed  to  a 
polish  as  the  quick  vapor  dried  away  from  it.  Say 
chatted,  and  looked  on. 

Presently  a  slow,  shuffling  step  came  in  at  the  end 
door  and  across  the  wide  kitchen,  toward  them. 

Joanna's  bright  good-morning  had  a  tone  of  ten 
derness  in  it.  An  old  man  stood  in  the  open  en 
trance  from  the  kitchen  to  the  breakfast-room.  An 
old,  bent  man,  with  a  mild,  asking  face ;  always  asking 
and  dreamy;  never  lighted  with  any  flash  of  certain 
apprehension.  He  came  in,  half  feeling  his  way;  the 
added  vacancy  in  his  eyes,  of  one  not  seeing  clearly, 
passing  from  the  outer  sunshine  to  the  shaded  room. 
Say's  dress  was  the  brightest  thing  there.  He  made 
straight  for  that. 

"Heaps  of  posies,  whole  heaps  of  posies,  and  a  posy 
face,  too !  "  as  Say  looked  up  at  him  and  smiled  in  his 
old  eyes. 

"Jane's  child;  little  Sarah,  you  know,"  Joanna 
said,  following  in,  and  speaking  with  slow  gentleness. 

"Jane  was  allers  a  pretty  little  gal;  yes,  proper- 
behaved.  No  gals  to  our  house,  and  marm  's  been 
gone  a  great  while.  Gabriel 's  a  good  boy,  though; 
always  a  good  boy,  Gabriel." 

"Going  to  the  field,  father?  " 

All  the  village  people  called  old  Mr.  Hartshorne 
"father."  It  is  a  natural,  pitiful  way  that  kindly 
hearts  take  toward  such  feeble  folk.  Joanna  had  a 
sweet  accent  on  the  word,  that  was  a  little  different 
from  her  ordinary,  aplomb  fashion  of  speech. 


MUSIC  BETWEEN  THE  ACTS.  303 

When  Gabriel  was  by,  though,  she  never  called 
him  so.  Many  a  heart  has  its  little  stolen  luxury  like 
this. 

Gabriel  was  not  far,  they  all  knew  that.  He  never 
lost  the  old  man  long  from  sight.  As  for  the  old  man 
himself,  he  was  safe  enough  now,  riot  to  wander  widely 
from  his  "  boy ;  "  his  boy  of  five-and-thirty,  who,  for 
the  last  twelve  of  those  years  had  never  been  three 
days  together  away  from  him. ' 

"  Going  to  the  field  to  sow  corn, "  he  said  with  a 
childish  glee.  "I've  got  it;  a  whole  pocket  full." 
And  he  shook  the  kernels,  that  rattled  crisply  one 
against  another,  as  he  plunged  his  fingers  among  them. 
"Farmer's  gold,  Gabriel  says.  Gabriel  gave  it  to  me. 
Good  boy." 

"It's  a  bright  day,  father."  A  little  flush  crept 
up  to  Joanna's  cheek  as  she  said  this  word  the  second 
time.  She  was  nearly  caught.  Gabriel  stood  at  this 
instant  on  the  door-stone. 

He  came  in,  in  a  hearty  way.  He  shook  hands 
with  Say,  who  laid  her  little  white  palm  in  his  brown, 
generous,  faithful  one,  with  a  reverence ;  for  she  knew 
all  his  story;  all  that  any  knew,  that  is,  save  Joanna 
Gayworthy  in  her  secret  memory,  and  —  you  and  I, 
reader,  of  all  others  in  the  blind,  unconscious  world. 

Gabriel  turned  toward  Joanna,  last.  These  two 
rarely  addressed  each  other  by  name.  When  they 
did,  it  was  "Gabriel"  and  "Joanna"  simply,  as  it 
had  been  of  old  from  childhood  up ;  anything  else 
would  have  been  absurd ;  but  both,  with  a  certain  in 
stinct,  preferred  to  find  themselves  face  to  face  before 
speaking  at  all;  and  they  were  quick  to  catch  each 
other's  glances;  to  feel,  each  the  other,  by  an  intui 
tion,  when  there  was  a  something  to  be  said.  There 
were  times,  though,  when  a  name  was  given,  for  a 
meaning  that  was  put  so  better  than  in  other  word ; 


304  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

this  was  rare  and  beautiful;  it  stood  for  thanks;  for 
perfect  comprehension;  for  a  thousand  things.  It  was 
like  a  caress,  that  the  receiver  kept  the  happiness  of 
for  days,  reward  sufficient  for  whatever  called  it  forth ; 
the  giver  never  dreaming  how  dear  it  had  been  held. 
Yet  it  had  been  as  sweet  to  give  as  take.  In  one  thing 
only,  these  two  mistook  each  other.  It  was  a  mistake 
of  long  ago  with  one;  an  error  of  conclusion  grown 
from  it,  and  established  with  the  other. 

"I  looked  in  to  say 'that  we  might  change  hands  this 
morning  if  you  liked.  It  's  drilling  and  sowing  for 
us,  to-day,  and  if  you  'd  like  to  break  up  that  south- 
side  piece  of  the  Peak-hill  lot,  you  can  have  Rainer, 
as  well  as  not,  and  send  Landy  to  me." 

Rainer  was  a  stalwart  ploughman,  omnipotent  witli 
an  ox-team ;  Orlando  was  a  farm-boy  of  fourteen. 

"We  should  like  that,  Gabriel,  — thank  you." 

The  frank  acceptance,  and  the  Christian  name,  — 
these  were  the  thanks,  the  recompense;  the  rest  was 
but  a  fashion  of  speech,  common  to  common  people. 

Gabriel  leaned  down  over  the  chair  in  which  the  old 
man  had  seated  himself. 

"We  must  make  haste  now,  father,"  he  said. 
"Farmer's  gold  won't  grow  in  pockets." 

There  was  no  drawing-room  lounging  in  Hilbury. 
The  morning  calls  were  of  the  shortest. 

The  old  man  got  up  and  put  his  hand  out,  feeling 
for  Gabriel's.  Gabriel  passed  his  own  from  the  side 
furthest,  and  drew  his  father's  up,  upon  his  nearer 
arm.  A  kindly  support,  given  with  a  grace,  as  it 
might  have  been  to  a  woman,  or  to  any  old  and  feeble 
man.  Gabriel  Hartshorne  never  treated  his  childish 
father  as  a  child. 

"That  's  a  good  man,"  said  Say,  as  the  two  went 
out  of  hearing. 

''That 's  the  best  Christian  in  Hilbury,"  said  Aunt 


MUSIC  BETWEEN  THE  ACTS.  305 

Joanna,  in  a  way  that  ended  the  matter,  saying  all 
that  could  be  said. 

Gabriel  Hartshorne  went  forth  to  the  field  with  his 
old  father,  and  took  up  his  day's  work;  the  stronger 
for  that  moment  in  Joanna's  presence ;  for  that  word 
of  hers  that  he  had  caught.  "It 's  a  bright  day, 
father."  So  the  day  wore  a  new  brightness.  For  that, 
and  because  of  the  other  word,  —  "  Gabriel !  "  On  so 
little  may  hearts  live.  God  keeps  the  breath  in  us, 
we  know  not  how. 

And  she  ?  She  sang  as  she  had  sung  at  nineteen ; 
going  about  the  house  in  her  quick,  neat,  positive  way, 
putting  everything  in  Gay  worthy  trim ;  pure,  delicate, 
smiling  order.  Old-maidish?  I  suppose  so,  since 
there  were  but  these  two  maidens  to  be  the  soul  of  it 
all,  and  to  dwell  in  its  midst.  Since  there  was  such  a 
quietness  in  the  air,  such  a  staying  of  things  after  they 
were  put.  But,  whatever  the  life  might  look  like,  it 
was  no  stiff  and  solitary  living,  narrowed  to  the  placing 
of  a  chair,  the  polishing  of  a  fire-iron ;  there  was  a 
secret  joy  in  it,  an  untold  thought,  content  to  rest  so, 
asking  for  no  more,  yet  sure  of  something  that  ought 
to  be  its  own ;  that  should  be,  some  time,  let  this  world 
go  as  it  might ;  that,  meanwhile,  none  other  might  so 
much  as  touch. 

It  was  the  joy  God  gives  us  in  his  waiting-times. 
His  music  between  our  acts  of  life. 

Say  had  her  first  flitting  to  do  :  out  among  the  chick 
ens,  —  dozens  of  little  live  puff-balls  of  golden  down, 
with  just  one  note  of  faint,  tender  music  breathed  into 
each;  into  the  shed-chamber,  the  "play-parlor  "  of  old, 
where  some  of  the  selfsame  bits  of  pink  and  blue  china 
were  set  up  on  the  ledges,  against  the  boards,  where 
she  had  put  them,  years  ago ;  a  glance  out  from  the 
always-open  window;  a  counting  of  little  white  and 
black  and  motley  pigs,  that  were,  at  the  very  moment, 


306  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

scrambling  after  each  other  over  the  bit  of  meadow, 
toward  the  oak  wood,  —  off  thither  for  their  day's 
picnic ;  a  stroll  down  through  the  great  barn  between 
the  sweet-smelling  mows,  and  so  out,  at  the  south 
doors,  into  the  spring-meadow;  through  this,  by  the 
graveled  cart-path,  running  around  two  sides  to  a  bar- 
place  in  the  far  corner,  into  the  old  "  oak  orchard, " 
away  beyond,  where  the  great,  precipitous  gray  boulder 
reared  itself  in  the  midst,  on  the  brow  of  the  hill-field, 
and  beside  it  spread  the  huge  branches  of  the  ancient 
tree  that  gave  its  name  to  the  plantation.  A  rest 
here,  and  a  long  look  over  the  valley,  to  the  blue, 
misty  hills  beyond;  a  ride  on  the  old  apple-bough,  her 
steed  in  days  of  yore,  standing  here,  waiting,  still, 
like  the  enchanted  horse  in  the  legend  of  the  Alham- 
bra.  Back  again,  after  a  while,  more  slowly ;  a  peep 
into  dairy  and  cheese-room;  a  delicious  pecking,  in 
the  old  way,  at  white,  tender  curd,  cut  up  in  cubes, 
ready  for  the  press ;  and  at  last,  half  unwillingly,  an 
acknowledgment  of  the  one  "must  "  of  her  first,  bright 
day  of  multitudinous  delights,  —  unpacking ;  she  had 
all  this  to  fill  up  the  quick  morning  hours,  and  bring 
round  the  dinner-time,  before  she  had  really  settled 
what  to  do  with  the  day  at  all. 

"Shall  we  go  to  cousin  Wealthy 's  this  afternoon?  " 
she  asked  of  the  aunts,  sitting  down  with  them  to 
boiled  chicken  and  dandelions;  the  "cruel  dinner," 
that  she  had  called  it  in  her  childhood,  loving  the 
doorside  pets  and  the  field  flowers  so ;  yet  finding  it 
very  nice,  for  all,  as  she  had  then,  with  its  garnishing 
of  fresh  eggs  that  lay  like  inlaid  gold  and  ivory  upon 
the  dark  greens,  and  its  delicate  sauce  of  new,  sweet 
butter,  melted  into  cream  again,  from  the  very  churn. 
"Shall  we  go  to  cousin  Wealthy 's  and  see  Aunt 
Prue?" 

"I  promised  to  drive  over  to  Winthorpe  one  day 


MUSIC  BETWEEN  THE  ACTS.  307 

this  week,"  said  Rebecca,  "and  this  is  Friday.  We 
may  not  have  so  good  a  day  to-morrow.  And  Stacy 
will  have  been  looking  for  me." 

"  '  The  church  and  the  steeple,  and  all  the  good 
people, '  and  yet  she  complains  that  her  hands  are  not 
full,"  said  Aunt  Joanna  merrily.  "Did  you  ever 
find  out,  Say,  that  a  leisure  day  gets  crowded  fuller  of 
business,  in  the  end,  than  any  other  ?  It  '  s  just  so 
with  an  old  maid's  life.  Becsie  wasn't  satisfied  with 
being  the  chief  spoke  in  the  wheel  in  Hilbury  parish; 
but  she  must  take  Winthorpe  parsonage  under  her 
wing,  besides.  Stacy  King  has  got  a  flock,  you  see. 
It  's  very  meritorious  to  have  a  flock,  particularly  be 
cause  it  provides  something  for  your  friends  to  do.  So 
the  minister  came  over  here,  one  day,  five  or  six  years 
ago,  whimpering:  'Stacy  was  greatly  burdened,  and 
very  feeble;  she  was  lonely,  too;  she  wanted  some 
friend  to  cheer  her  up,  and  would  one  of  us  go  over  ?  ' 
Of  course  we  would;  people  that  haven't  got  husband 
and  flocks  never  have  anything  else  to  do  but  to  go 
everywhere,  and  do  everything,  and  all  at  a  time.  So 
Becsie  went.  And  when  she  once  begins  on  a  thing, 
she  takes  it  right  into  her  life,  and  makes  a  place  for 
it,  and  after  that  it  's  never  off  the  docket.  She  's 
like  the  man  I  saw  in  Selport  with  the  dinner-plates. 
One  more  never  makes  any  difference.  She  keeps  them 
all  spinning.  Turn  by  turn.  And  to-day  's  the  day, 
it  seems,  for  spinning  Winthorpe.  So  you  '11  have  to 
go  there,  if  anywhere." 

"That 's  beautiful.  I  like  going  to  Winthorpe. 
It 's  so  lovely  down  that  old  street,  so  broad  and  green, 
with  just  a  track  in  the  middle,  and  the  great  elms 
reaching  overhead.  I  'm  glad  you  didn't  go  before, 
Aunt  Becsie." 

"You  needn't  be  under  any  alarm,"  said  Joanna. 
"There  '11  be  opportunities  enough.  What  with 


308  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

Stacy's  ailments,  and  the  vicissitudes  of  the  flock,  — 
seven  of  them,  Say !  —  there  's  always  an  errand.  Bec- 
sie  goes  one  day  to  find  out  what  she  's  to  go  for 
next.  Last  winter,  they  kept  her  busy  with  whoop 
ing-cough;  the  spring  before,  it  was  measles;  and 
when  the  parsoness  gets  pulled  down  herself,  she  goes 
and  stays.  That 's  every  six  months,  or  so." 

Rebecca  only  smiled.  There  was  no  open  wound, 
now,  to  be  touched  with  Joanna's  raillery.  Joanna 
had  no  suspicion  there  had  ever  been  one.  Their  two 
lives  ran  on,  side  by  side,  each  holding  its  own  mys 
tery.  Such  is  sisterhood;  and  friendship;  for  the 
most  part. 

By  two  o'clock,  the  comfortable,  two-seated  wagon 
was  rolling  along  the  downhill  roads  that  led  easterly 
to  the  Chinsittimie  and  Winthorpe.  It  was  four  when 
they  came  into  the  large,  yet  rural  river- town.  It 
was  beautiful,  as  Say  had  said.  Built  on  the  wide, 
level  meadow  reaches,  it  had,  in  place  of  the  narrow, 
winding  road  that  creeps  from  village  to  village  among 
the  hills,  a  broad,  magnificent  green  street,  running 
parallel  to  the  river.  Back  from  this,  rods  apart, 
stood  the  houses ;  odd  and  antique,  many  of  them ;  for 
Winthorpe  was  an  early  settlement,  and  its  fine  acad 
emy  was  an  old  foundation.  There  were  gambrel- 
roofs  and  overhanging  upper  stories;  queer  one-sided 
roofs,  with  slope  from  ridgepole  to  doorpost  behind, 
and  a  mere  flap  in  front,  above  the  fair,  two-story 
elevation ;  deep  porticoes  and  low  stoops ;  all  varieties 
of  primitive  New  England  architecture.  Over  all, 
trees  older  than  the  houses. 

Up  a  turf  yard,  to  the  side  porch,  hung  with  trails 
and  sweeps  of  woodbine,  just  growing  tender  with 
new  green,  they  came  to  the  parsonage  entrance. 

The  pale,  worn  preacher  saw  them  from  his  study 
window,  and  came  out  to  take  their  horse.  Stacy  ran 


MUSIC  BETWEEN  THE  ACTS.  309 

from  some  inner  domestic  sanctum,  picking  up  a  child 
by  the  way,  and  gave  them  greeting  at  the  door. 

"This  is  real  good  of  you,  and  to  bring  Say,  too!  " 
she  said.  "I  've  been  looking  for  you  all  the  week." 

Stacy  King  had  no  time  now  for  puffs  and  vanities. 
If  not  given  up,  they  had  been  crowded  aside.  Her 
bright  hair  was  put  back  over  her  ears,  not  quite  un- 
rumpled.  The  baby  had  been  tugging  at  it.  Her 
face  was  thin,  her  eyes  looked  large,  a  side-tooth  was 
gone  that  showed  a  gap  in  the  pretty  mouth,  when  she 
smiled,  as  she  did  now;  yet  her  smile  was  sweeter, 
somehow,  when  it  came,  than  it  had  been  in  the  old, 
gay,  careless  days,  when  it  had  won  Gordon  King. 
The  corners  of  her  lips  drooped  into  a  quiet  gravity, 
after  the  smile  faded.  There  was  a  line  between  the 
eyebrows  that  told  of  perplexities,  very  like  of  petu 
lance.  Stacy  had  had  a  hard  school  to  learn  in. 

You  could  have  seen  what  Rebecca  Gayworthy  had 
been  to  her,  by  the  look  she  turned  and  rested  on  her 
when  she  had  got  her  indoors  and  taken  away  her  bon 
net.  What  she  had  been  in  the  household,  by  the  very 
baby  springing  to  her  arms  as  soon  as  it  saw  her  face 
and  caught  her  voice.  What  Gordon  King  thought 
when  he  came  in  and  found  her  so,  as  he  reached  out 
his  wan,  white  hand  for  a  renewed  grasp  of  welcome. 
But  only  God  and  the  secret  hearts  of  those  two  knew 
all  that  she  had  been. 

The  line  had  begun  to  come  in  Stacy's  forehead 
many  years  ago,  when  the  first  illusion  of  mere  earthly 
love  had  faded,  and  the  cares  came  in  that  thrust  the 
husband  and  wife  apart.  This  time  arrives  with  the 
demands  of  earnest  life,  in  some  phase,  to  every  pair. 
Every  Adam  and  Eve  must  leave  their  early  Paradise 
behind  them,  and  while  it  lies  there  like  a  dream, 
turn  from  it  to  the  wilderness  that  spreads  wide  and 
unrelenting  all  before.  When  Gordon  King  and  Stacy 
stood  so  in  their  wilderness,  an  angel  came  to  them. 


310  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

Only  she  and  Stacy  knew  the  words  that  had  been 
said  between  them,  that  day,  long  ago,  in  her  first 
visit,  as  they  sat  in  the  two  low  chairs  by  the  nursery 
fire;  nursery  and  mother's  room,  as  wrell ;  when  Stacy 
flung  down  with  a  sudden,  reckless  impatience,  the  in 
sufficient  pattern  of  cloth  from  which  she  had  been 
trying  to  contrive  a  little  coat ;  and,  with  the  stirring 
of  a  pebble,  the  whole  pent-back  stream  poured  forth. 

"It  's  always  so!  I  never  tried  to  save  by  making 
a  thing  do  that  wouldn't  do,  but  I  ended  in  wasting 
the  whole.  It  's  miserable  trying  to  get  something 
out  of  nothing.  And  that 's  what  my  whole  life  has 
been.  There  wasn't  enough  stuff  in  the  beginning. 
And  now  it 's  all  cut  up,  and  there  's  nothing  made  of 
it,  after  all.  I  've  worried,  and  tugged,  and  strained, 
and  lost  my  good-nature,  and  my  strength,  and  my 
good  looks,  and  all  I  had  to  make  anybody  care  for 
me;  and  I'm  cross,  and  old,  and  good  for  nothing, 
and  spoilt !  "  And  she  put  her  two  hands  against  her 
forehead,  and  leaned  down  helplessly,  and  cried. 

"You've  done  what  God  gave  you  to  do,  Stacy; 
don't  say  there  's  nothing  made  of  it." 

"I  have  n't.  And  He  did  n't  give  it  to  me.  I 
took  it.  Rebecca  Gaywoithy,  you  know  that." 

Rebecca  was  silent  at  that  for  a  half  minute.  Then 
she  came  near,  and  laid  her  arm  over  Stacy's  neck,  — 
the  thin  shoulders,  that  had  been  so  round  and  shapely 
once,  —  quivering  now,  with  the  soul-pain  that  sent 
itself  through  the  flesh,  —  and  said  tenderly,  — 

"You  took  what  you  were  made  so  as  to  long  for, 
and  what  He  let  lie  in  your  way.  We  can  get  nothing 
that  He  does  not  give.  It  is  yours,  —  this  life,  — 
because  you  needed  it." 

"And  I  am  not  fit  for  it,  Rebecca.  I  feel  some 
times  as  if  I  had  cheated  my  husband.  And,  —  Lord 
help  me !  —  sometimes  I  think  he  feels  so,  too.  I  think 


MUSIC  BETWEEN  THE  ACTS.  311 

he  almost  turns  from  me,  and  gives  me  up.  And  yet, 
I  did  mean  to  be  so  good!  It  wasn't  a  pretense. 
But  my  religion  was  like  all  the  rest ;  there  never  was 
stuff  enough.  I  tried  to  make  it  do,  but  it  fell  short." 

"We  don't  have  it  all  at  once,  Stacy.  It  grows, 
as  life  grows.  Out  of  all  these  things,  perhaps,  it  is 
coming  to  you  more  and  more." 

"If  I  thought  that!  But  no;  it  's  punishment. 
I  wanted  to  be  religious  because  he  was ;  because  I 
couldn't  be  a  minister's  wife  without  it;  because  I 
loved  him  so.  And  I  felt  sure  that  with  him  I  could 
be  anything.  I  thought  he  would  always  help  me. 
But  he  's  had  other  people  to  help;  and  I  've  had  my 
separate  work  to  do.  And  when  a  person  is  once  sup 
posed  to  have  got  religion,  it  's  taken  for  granted  to 
be  for  good  and  all.  Or  else,  they  've  been  hypocrites 
and  pretenders.  I  suppose  that 's  what  I  've  been ; 
but  I  did  n't  mean  it,  Becsie.  I  believed  in  myself 
—  then." 

"And  why  not  now,  Stacy?  What  reason  have 
you  to  doubt  ?  " 

"Oh,  Becsie,  it  don't  hold!  It  gives  way  with 
every  strain  that  comes  upon  it.  I  have  n't  any 
strength  nor  any  patience.  I  'm  cross  with  my  hus 
band,  and  cross  with  my  children.  And  I  care  just 
as  much  for  vanities  as  ever;  only  I  can't  get  them. 
It  makes  me  angry  to  see  my  face  in  the  glass,  all 
pinched  and  pale ;  and  to  have  to  wear  that  old  straw 
bonnet  with  the  brown  ribbon  ironed  out.  And  — 
it 's  gospel  truth,  Becsie,  though  he  's  a  good  man  — 
he  is  n't  half  so  patient  himself  with  me  as  he  was  when 
I  was  pretty." 

"Don't  you  tell  him  your  troubles  and  temptations? 
Don't  you  pray  God  together  for  help?" 

"Of  course  we  have  family  prayers,  when  Dorcas 
comes  in;  there's  hardly  a  chance  now  for  anything 


312  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

else,  with  all  his  time  so  taken  up,  and  the  habies 
wanting  me  every  hour.  And  prayers  —  it 's  dread 
ful,  but  they  do !  —  make  me  feel  further  away  from 
him  than  ever,  and  from  God,  too;  when,  perhaps,  I  've 
been  fretful  and  tired  all  day  long.  Oh,  Becsie,  I 
want  to  be  taken  up  and  comforted !  " 

Rebecca  drew  the  tired  head,  the  pale  face,  down 
upon  her  shoulder. 

"You  're  worn  out,  dear.  It 's  that.  You  mustn't 
find  fault  with  the  soul  for  the  ails  of  the  body.  You 
don't  sleep  well,  poor  child!  do  you?  " 

The  tender  words,  — the  "poor  child,"  —  the  nest 
ling  down  into  a  friendly  bosom,  —  with  these,  Stacy 
sobbed  in  a  gentle,  passive,  grieved  way,  as  a  baby 
might. 

"I  have  n't  had  a  whole  night's  rest  in  all  these 
five  years  past.  Sometimes  not  a  whole  hour.  I  've 
had  my  arms  full  night  and  day ;  when  I  wanted  to  be 
in  arms  myself  and  tended." 

She  breathed  it  out  brokenly  between  her  sobs. 

"'The  eternal  God  is  thy  refuge;  and  underneath 
are  the  everlasting  arms.'  We  are  only  left  to  feel 
the  other,  that  we  might  feel  this.  'Flesh  and  heart 
faileth;  but  God  is  the  strength  of  our  hearts,  and 
our  portion  forever. '  Think  that  He  is  teaching  you 
this,  Stacy,  and  be  willing  to  learn  his  lesson.  But 
never  think  that  He  has  left  you,  or  given  you  over." 

"Oh,  that  is  what  I  have  been  afraid  of,"  mur 
mured  Stacy. 

"  If  the  life  had  gone  out  of  you,  you  could  not  have 
been  afraid.  It  is  the  flesh  that  is  weak;  and  for 
that,  we  must  take  care  of  you,  somehow." 

"God  bless  you,  Rebecca  Gayworthy!  You  do  take 
me  up  and  comfort  me.  And  to  think  it  should  be 
you!" 

"Hush,  hush,  dear!" 


MUSIC  BETWEEN  THE  ACTS:  313 

"She  needs  change  and  rest." 

Rebecca  had  said  so  to  the  minister  downstairs, 
after  prayers  that  same  night,  when  Stacy  had  gone 
up  early  with  the  baby. 

"  Next  month, "  —  the  next  month  would  be  Octo 
ber,  and  Rebecca  knew  that  then  the  baby  would  be 
gin  its  little,  independent  life,  and  the  mother  might 
be  spared  from  it,  —  "next  month  would  not  Mrs. 
Fairbrother  come  over  and  stay,  and  let  me  have  Stacy 
awhile  at  the  farm?  Annie  and  Gordie  should  come 
too.  That  would  make  it  easier  here,  and  they  should 
not  tease  Stacy." 

The  minister  turned  with  a  quick,  grateful  look. 

"You  shall  take  your  own  way  with  us  all.  You 
are  a  true  friend,  Miss  Rebecca." 

"Being  so,  may  I  say  one  thing  more,  that  only  a 
true  friend  should  say  ?  " 

"Whatever  you  please." 

"Do  you  remember  what  you  spoke  of  when  you 
first  came  to  tell  us  that  this  home  was  to  be  ?  Of  the 
help  she  needed  ?  *  Her  feet, '  you  said,  '  are  newly 
set  in  the  upward  way.'  Hasn't  it  been  harder  for 
her  sometimes  than  you  have  thought,  perhaps,  with 
all  these  cares  coming  about  her?  " 

"Have  I  been  hard  upon  her?  Does  she  think 
that?" 

"No,"  said  Rebecca.  "But  I  am  afraid  she  is 
hard  upon  herself.  Because  of  little  failures.  I 
think  she  needs  help  and  cherishing  that  way ;  more 
than  she  did  then,  in  her  first  hopefulness.  I  think 
she  needs  to  feel  nearer  to  her  husband  and  his 
strength  than  ever." 

Rebecca  said  this  low,  timidly,  as  going  to  the  very 
verge  of  her  friendly  right. 

Gordon  King  regarded  her  intently.  His  voice  al 
tered,  and  he  partly  turned  away  again  as  he  answered 
her. 


314  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

"My  strength  is  a  poor  thing,"  he  said.  "I  have 
had  my  failures,  too.  I  laid  my  hands  on  life  pre 
sumptuously,  before  I  knew  what  sort  of  matter  it 
was.  I  took  it  upon  me  to  lead  others  when,  God 
knows,  I  wanted  leading  most  of  all  myself.  I  was  n't 
fit  to  care  for  Stacy,  poor  child." 

"  Yet  her  very  love  of  God  went  up  through  you ! 
and  now  she  is  afraid.  Don't  leave  her  alone!  " 

All  the  tenderness  of  the  old  days,  —  of  the  starlit 
evenings,  when  Stacy  had  told  him  first,  "she  was  not 
good,  she  was  afraid, "  —  when  it  had  seemed  so  sweet 
to  help  her,  to  lift  his  soul  to  Heaven  for  hers,  — 
when  he  had  thought  he  could  be  strong  for  both,  — 
came  back  suddenly  as  he  heard  these  words.  A  lofti 
ness  and  strength  came  also  to  him,  from  the  loftiness 
he  recognized  in  her  who  spoke  them.  A  new,  gen 
erous  love  toward  the  wife  for  whom  even  the  old, 
first,  passionate  love  had  borrowed  a  tender  reverence, 
carried  unconsciously  from  his  thought  of  this  woman, 
—  this  friend,  —  who  was  too  high  for  him  now,  as 
she  had  been  then;  who  strengthened  him  standing 
by ;  from  whose  presence  he  could  bear  strength  to  the 
other,  —  his  own,  —  waiting  for  it.  There  are  wo 
men  who  are  born  for  ministry  like  this ;  not  receiv 
ing  unto  themselves,  ever,  save  from  God ;  giving  out 
always. 

Gordon  King  thought  of  his  wife  as  she  had  been 
in  those  old  days;  in  her  sweet  girlishness,  that  any 
beautiful  womanhood  might  grow  from;  with  her 
fresh,  bright  smile,  that  grew  brighter  always  for 
him;  when  her  very  little  pettishnesses  and  vanities 
were  like  the  spring  breeze  that  tosses  up  a  perfume. 
He  thought  of  the  weary  mother  above  there,  hushing 
her  weary  child.  He  felt  life  had  been  hard  for  her. 
It  had  been  hard  for  him;  but  its  hardness  should 
not  have  thrust  between  them  so.  Tears  and  prayers 


MUSIC  BETWEEN  THE  ACTS.  315 

should  not  have  been  so  locked  away  in  two  separate 
souls.  Please  God,  his  yet  young  flower  should  grow 
bright  again. 

"I  will  not  leave  her  alone.  God  forgive  me  if  I 
have  done  so !  " 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  Rebecca  as  he  rose.  He 
grasped  hers  hard.  "God  has  sent  a  help  to  us  both," 
said  he  tremulously. 

"And  that  it  should  be  you!  "  That  was  what  his 
heart  smote  him  with,  also,  secretly,  though  he  spoke 
it  not.  The  underlife  that  never  had  been  spoken, 
—  that  lay  between  these  three,  —  through  the  power 
of  this  Rebecca  touched  them  both,  the  husband  and 
the  wife.  It  was  possible  for  her  alone ;  her  purchased 
right.  At  her  hand  they  must  take  help.  Was  it 
gift  of  grace,  or  coals  of  fire?  Gift  of  God's  love,  as 
comes  with  all  scorch  and  pain,  though  we  have 
earned  the  pain  only. 

The  minister  went  upstairs ;  the  baby  was  hushed 
away  in  the  cradle.  He  and  Stacy  were  alone. 

Rebecca  sat  below,  wistful  of  a  beginning  of  new 
joy  for  them ;  a  joy  she  had  helped  to  make ;  that  she 
also  entered  into. 

I  think  it  was  the  very  "joy  of  her  Lord."  Of 
Him  who  came  not  to  be  ministered  unto,  but  to  min 
ister. 

More  than  six  years  ago  that  was.  Six  years, 
wherein,  quietly  and  faithfully,  Rebecca  Gayworthy 
had  taken  Winthorpe  parsonage  "right  into  her  life, 
and  made  a  place  for  it ;  "  wherein  there  had  grown 
to  be  no  other  consciousness  any  more  between  her 
and  it,  than  that  of  a  gentle,  happy  friendliness ;  till 
to-day,  because  of  her,  there  was  here  a  life,  toilsome 
but  peaceful ;  there  were  hearts  weary  often,  but  un- 
distrustful ;  love  chastened,  calm,  patient ;  here  where 
wreck  of  heart  and  faith  and  life  had  threatened ;  till 


S16  THE  GATWOETHYS. 

to-day,  a  cheeriness  lighted  itself  up  about  her,  as  she 
came  in,  so  that  Sarah  Gair,  entering  after  her,  felt 
on  the  very  threshold  the  soul  of  the  whole  story. 

Joanna  had  been  set  down  in  Shop  Row.  She  had 
some  errands  to  do  and  an  old  school-friend  to  see. 
Afterward  she  came  to  the  parsonage.  And  then  it 
made  itself  evident  that,  for  all  her  sauciness,  she  had 
taken  up  a  cheery  little  mission  of  her  own  here,  none 
the  less. 

There  were  sugar-plums  in  her  bag,  and  the  children 
instincted  them  afar  off,  like  flies.  She  popped  them 
into  their  mouths  as  they  stood  about  her  knees,  hold 
ing  up  defiantly,  now  and  then,  before  the  parson's 
eyes,  a  glowing  red  or  lucid  amber  bit,  as  she  came 
to  it.  The  parson  usually  approved  only  of  white, 
unflavored  candies  for  his  children,  when,  poor  souls, 
they  happened  to  get  any  at  all.  But  that  was  neither 
according  to  Joanna's  hygiene  nor  philosophy. 

"They're  made  to  like  pretty  colors,"  she  said. 
"We  need  n't  poison  them,  to  be  sure;  but  the  bright 
sugar  tastes  the  sweetest,  for  all  that,  and  it  takes  a 
little  essence  of  something  to  help  the  double-refine 
ments  down." 

So,  after  the  sweetmeats  came  stories;  truth  es- 
senced  for  them  upon  the  like  principle.  White  light 
broken  up  into  rainbows.  Aunt  Joanna  told  magnifi 
cent  stories.  She  went  on,  to-day,  with  a  wonderful 
serial  about  a  cat  who  exceeded  in  the  brilliancy  of  her 
adventures  all  the  cats  of  fable.  In  their  fundamental 
morality,  also,  since  she  never  lied,  or  stole,  or  slew, 
impunibly;  but  was  trained  gradually  by  the  discipline 
of  consequences,  even  as  little  humans,  toward  truth 
and  honesty  and  mercy.  And  the  story  never  came 
to  a  final  end,  any  more  than  life  does.  She  was 
never  declared  to  have  been  "good  and  happy  ever 
after;"  there  was  always  "more  for  next  time," 


MUSIC  BETWEEN  THE  ACTS.  317 

Aunt  Joanna  knew  Mother  Goose,  too,  from  beginning 
to  end,  and  she  sang  the  old  rhymes  in  her  clear,  beau 
tiful  voice,  to  improvised  melodies  of  her  own,  some 
times  gleeful  as  laughter,  sometimes  sweet  and  touch 
ing  as  old  church-tunes.  The  others  dropped  their 
talk  often  and  listened,  to  her  inventions  as  well  as  to 
her  songs.  The  grave  minister  laughed  at  her  oddi 
ties,  and  Stacy,  declaring  that  there  was  never  any 
chance  of  rationality  after  Joanna  Gayworthy  came 
in,  was  met  by  the  avowal  that  it  was  precisely  what 
she  came  for:  to  shake  them  up  and  unsettle  them  out 
of  their  primness,  and  give  them  all  the  trouble  she 
could  in  getting  back  to  it  again.  She  was  like  a 
breeze  that  set  everything  fluttering,  and  left  the 
whole  house  freshened  after  she  had  passed  on. 

Then  as  they  drove  slowly  homeward  over  the  hills, 
she  took  up  her  pranks  of  satire  again. 

"I  've  found  it  out;  and  it 's  something  for  an  old 
maid  to  discover!  Marriage  goes  by  the  Rule  of 
Three.  A  two-legged  stool  won't  stand  alone.  It 
wants  a  third  prop  somehow.  Sometimes  it  's  reli 
gion,  —  when  they  're  both  of  one  mind  about  that,  and 
when  it  really  is  the  main  thing;  sometimes  it  's 
worldliness,  —  when  they  've  both  one  object ;  some 
times  it  's  a  friend,  — when  there  's  somebody  that  's 
as  much  to  both  of  them  as  they  are  to  each  other. 
That  makes  a  three-strand  rope.  And  for  that  couple 
it  's  Rebecca  Gayworthy.  She  's  married  'em  both, 
as  much  as  they  ever  married  one  another.  And  she'  s 
the  house-band  let  me  tell  you,  Say,  of  the  whole  es 
tablishment." 

Say  laughed.  Rebecca  smiled  gently,  as  she  always 
did  at  Joanna's  fun,  but  her  eye  had  a  far-away  joy  in 
it,  not  born  of  the  smile.  It  was  a  look  like  one  who 
hears  a  faint,  sweet  tone  in  the  air.  The  echo  of  her 
own  life-music,  floating  round  her  in  this  midmost 
calm,  from  all  its  pure  accordant  years. 


318  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

"But  what, "  said  Say  presently,  "if  they  can't 
manage  to  get  a  third  prop?  There  aren't  many 
Aunt  Rebeccas  to  be  had,  whatever  they  might  do 
about  the  other  things." 

"  Oh,  then  they  lean  up  against  a  dead  wall,  most  of 
'em,  and  just  look  strong  and  respectable.  There  's 
plenty  of  two-legged  stools  in  the  world." 

"But,  Aunt  Joanna,"  said  Say  again,  "I  don't  be 
lieve  you  take  enough  credit  to  yourself.  It  seems 
to  me  you  're  as  much  at  home  at  the  parsonage  as 
anybody." 

"Oh,  I  go  there,  just  as  I  do  to  dozens  of  other 
places.  I  like  to  ^ee  how  different  human  beings  man 
age.  I  borrow  a  little  of  everybody's  life.  That 's 
what  I  go  to  church  for,  as  much  as  the  preaching.  I 
know  when  old  Mrs.  Gibson  has  had  the  bows  turned 
on  her  black  Navarino,  and  it  makes  me  feel  just  as 
comfortable  for  her  as  she  does  for  herself ;  and  it 's 
nice  to  get  a  glimpse  of  Eunice  when  she  isn't  tailor- 
essing;  and  to  think  how  she  's  resting  with  her  gloves 
on,  and  her  hands  folded.  And  I  like  to  see  when  the 
Newcombe  girls  are  home  from  Manchester  on  a  visit, 
and  to  watch  their  mother's  eyes;  I  don't  know  but 
her  pride  is  as  pious  as  most  folks'  prayers.  And  to 
see  the  different  looks  on  different  faces  when  a  hymn  's 
given  out,  or  the  Bible  's  read,  or  something  special  is 
said  in  a  sermon.  You  can  tell  half  that  ever  hap 
pened  to  people,  if  you  didn't  know  it  before;  and 
pretty  nearly  what 's  come  of  it  all.  Yes,  Say,  I  'm 
a  gossip;  weekdays  and  Sundays,  a  clear  gossip.  Old 
maids  generally  are,  when  they  are  n't  saints  like  Bec- 
sie.  And  a  gossip  is  n't  a  bad  thing,  either,  if  you 
leave  out  the  tattling  part.  I  looked  the  word  out  in 
Johnson  one  day.  It  comes  from  '  God-sibb,  God-re 
lation.'  It  's  what  He  puts  between  us  in  this  world. 
And  most  of  my  religion,  I  think,  if  I  've  got  any, 


MUSIC  BETWEEN  THE  ACTS.  319 

comes  by  relation;  by  feeling  other  people's  experi 
ences.  I  'd  rather  see  a  good  face,  and  know  of  a  good 
thing  done,  than  to  hear  a  twenty-headed  sermon 
about  it." 

Not  a  word  in  all  this  of  Mrs.  Prouty,  as  of  old. 
There  had  been  no  sarcasm  either  upon  Stacy;  some 
thing  in  the  years  had  touched  Joanna's  quickness  with 
a  broader  kindliness. 

Say  remembered  this  talk,  afterward,  on  Sunday, 
sitting  by  Aunt  Joanna,  in  the  old  square  pew;  Jo 
anna  had  left  the  singing  gallery  years  ago,  when 
there  only  remained  Rebecca  and  herself,  of  all  the 
Gayworthys,  to  sit  together ;  Say  thought  of  her  words, 
and  her  Sunday  "gossip,"  seeing  Gabriel  Hartshorne 
—  the  "best  Christian  in  all  Hilbury  "  —  in  the  pew 
before ;  seeing  him  find  the  chapter  and  hymn  for  his 
old  father,  and  hold  the  book  for  him  to  look  on ;  see 
ing  him  pick  up  his  hat  for  him,  when  the  service  was 
over,  and  the  people  going  out;  and  lead  him  down 
the  aisle,  slowly,  leaning  on  his  strong,  tender  arm. 
She  saw  the  light  in  Joanna's  eyes,  looking  on  all  this, 
as  they  walked  after ;  when  Gabriel  would  have  drawn 
back  to  let  them  pass  more  quickly,  and  she  refused  to 
hasten  by,  but  kept  a  reverent  step  behind ;  when  after 
ward,  in  the  churchyard,  they  came  near,  — the  old 
man  and  the  younger  one,  —  pausing  at  a  white-tab- 
leted  grave. 

" Hepzibah  Hartshorne, "  the  stone  said,  "aged  54." 

Joanna  Gay  worthy  pressed  Say's  arm  and  drew  her 
on.  But  she  had  seen  Gabriel  give  to  his  father  a 
little  nosegay  of  spring  flowers.  And  the  old  man 
smiled,  and  laid  it  on  the  grave. 

"She's  'way  off,  an'  it's  a  long  time!  But  she 
knows  we  don't  forget  her  Sunday  posy,  Gabe!  " 

Gabriel  bent  his  head,  and  a  strange,  sweet  smile 
came  over  his  face,  a  shining  intentness  into  its  lines, 


320  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

as  of  one  to  whom  a  far,  glad,  solemn  utterance  comes, 
that  is  not  for  all.  Some  faint,  beautiful  likeness,  I 
think  it  must  have  borne  to  the  look  that  rested  once 
on  the  One  Divine  Countenance,  when  the  Voice 
breathed,  "My  beloved  Son!  in  whom  I  am  well 
pleased." 

Her  Sunday  posy,  brought  to  her  even  yet  by  loving 
hands.  In  the  tall-growing  grass  lay  many  such,  al 
ready,  drying  away  there,  week  by  week. 

"  Do  they  always  do  that  ?  "  Say  whispered. 

And  Joanna  answered,  in  a  hushed  way,  as  speaking 
of  something  holy,  —  "always." 

Even  in  a  blank  like  this,  a  music.  .Sweet-dropping 
notes,  summer  by  summer,  measuring  the  time,  between 
far-parted  acts  of  an  old  man's  helpless  life. 

Aunt  Joanna  sat  through  the  afternoon  service  with 
her  head  upon  her  hand.  Her  face  was  paler  than  at 
morning,  and  there  was  now  and  then  a  look  of  wistful 
pain  about  the  eyes.  Say  leaned  toward  her  once,  tak 
ing  her  little  smelling-bottle  from  her  pocket.  A  quick 
motion  of  Joanna's  hand  said  plainly,  Nonsense!  and 
with  a  queer  little  quiver  of  the  mouth,  she  pulled 
down  her  veil  over  the  front  of  her  bonnet  and  turned 
away. 

"What  was  the  matter,  Auntie?  "  asked  Say,  after 
ward,  when  they  came  out. 

"Matter?  goosie !  "  replied  Joanna.  "Why,  I  sat 
looking  at  'Senath  Spring's  new  bonnet  with  the  cape 
all  on  one  side  till  it  gave  me  the  toothache!  Nobody 
knows  what  I  have  to  go  through  with  the  Hilbury 
millinery !  " 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

THEN    AND    NOW. 

JOANNA  was  out  in  the  front  yard  sowing  her  last 
annuals  in  the  little  beds  under  the  parlor  windows. 
Say  stood  behind  her  with  the  basket  of  seeds. 

"Now,  the  nasturtiums." 

While  Say  had  her  fingers  among  the  paper  bags,  — 
rattle-te-clash !  down  came  a  country  wagon  to  the 
gate.  'Siah  Ford,  factotum,  from  the  Hoogs  place. 

"Cap'n  Vorse  's  got  home!  " 

Joanna  jumped  up  and  turned  round,  and  Say  thrust 
into  her  hand  a  big  brown  parcel  of  pumpkin  seeds. 

"Gershom!     When?" 

"Las'  night.  Much  as  ever,  though.  Ship  all  but 
went  down  in  a  harricane." 

Then  the  two  women  turned  pale,  as  if  the  news  had 
come  this  end  foremost,  with  the  "all  but"  left  out; 
and,  in  an  instant,  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  grass- 
path, —  basket,  trowel,  pumpkin  seeds,  and  all. 

"'Siah  Ford!"  cried  Joanna,  clutching  the  paper 
parcel  in  one  hand  till  the  pumpkin  seeds  began  to  ooze 
through  its  lower  end  and  slide  down  into  the  grass, 
while  she  threatened  him  with  the  trowel  in  the  other, 
"what-ever-in-the-world-do-you-mean?  "  Saying  these 
words  very  deliberately  and  emphatically  with  the  little 
catches  between  as  designated,  she  sowed  at  least  three 
pumpkins  to  the  syllable. 

'Siah  Ford  looked  her  in  the  face,  solemnly. 

"Sartin  true,  — black  'n'  blue,  — give  yer  leave  ter 
cut  m'  in  two." 

"Not  the  Ceres!" 


322  THE  GAY  WORTHY  S. 

"Ser'is?  Yes,  I  tell  yer!  Can't  nidhin'  mate  yer 
b'lieve  a  feller?" 

"The  ship  Ceres!  You  know  what  I  mean.  Say, 
make  him  tell !  " 

"Ship  Ceres?  Oh,  lor,  no!  I  remember  now.  No, 
't  war  n't  the  Ceres;  they  left  her  'longshore,  some- 
wheres,  out  there  in  Indy;  stoppin'  fer  iv'ry,  or  sun- 
thin'  ;  he  '11  tell  yer.  But  the  short  on  't  is,  he  's 
cap'n;  an'  I  rather  guess  he's  airnt  his  ship.  One 
they  put  him  aboard  of  to  bring  home.  The  cap'n 
died  out  there.  'T  all  belonged  t'  the  same  concern. 
S'pose  likely  I  don't  take  in  the  hull  on  't,  but  from 
what  I  c'n  pick  up  'bout  it,  he  's  done  sunthin'  'r 
other  pesky  smart,  Cap'n  Vorse  has,  or  less  he  would  n't 
be  here." 

Sarah  Gair's  eyes  flashed  a  great,  proud  gladness, 
as  she  stood  and  listened. 

"  Something  smart  ?  "  Oh,  she  knew !  Some  brave, 
grand  thing,  such  as  Gershom  had  always  meant  to  do. 
Now,  it  had  come.  Now,  he  was  a  hero.  And  this 
noble  thing,  this  glory,  —  it  was  hers,  partly,  also, 
because  she  had  been  in  the  secret,  in  the  old  days, 
when  it  was  only  a  dream;  when  he  first  wanted  to 
go  to  sea,  and  talked  out  there  on  the  big  rock  under 
the  yellow  plum-tree  of  what  he  would  do  if  he  ever 
got  to  be  a  man,  and  a  sailor.  Her  hands  trembled, 
holding  the  willow  basket.  The  full,  brilliant  color 
swept  up  and  deepened  in  her  cheek,  till  it  glowed, 
palpitated,  like  a  flame. 

Aunt  Joanna  had  not  quite  got  over  her  little  pale 
ness  at  the  shock  and  the  astonishment;  at  thirty- 
three  the  blood  does  not  pulse  back  and  forth  with  such 
suddenness  as  at  nineteen. 

"Why,  child,"  she  cried,  turning  round  to  Say, 
"you're  illuminated!" 

With  that  she  sowed  the  last  of  the  pumpkins  in  a 


THEN  AND  NOW.  323 

new  spot,  and  was  never  the  wiser.  How  they  came 
there  under  the  maples,  she  wondered,  a  month  or  two 
later. 

'Siah  Ford  had  driven  round  into  the  chip-yard. 
Rebecca  was  coming  up  from  the  barn  with  a  basket  of 
eggs.  Do  the  best  they  could,  the  women  must  go 
back  through  the  house,  to  meet  her.  So  he  would  be 
first  with  his  news.  This  was  his  business,  to-day, 
with  every  soul  he  could  waylay  in  Hilbury.  Nothing 
else  under  the  sun  had  brought  him  down  from  the 
farm  with  his  horse  and  empty  wagon.  There  was 
meal  waiting  at  the  mill,  to  be  sure,  and  he  was  going 
for  it,  by  and  by,  if  he  didn't  forget  it.  This  is  the 
way  they  carry  tidings  in  Yankee-land;  much  like  the 
"bended  bow  and  the  voice "  of  Highland  warfare, 
only  without  the  avowed  purpose.  There  is  always 
meal  at  the  mill. 

He  "couldn't  stop  to  talk  over  partick'lers;  must 
come  up  to  our  'us  an'  hear  all  about  it.  Cap'n  was 
smart,  an'  so  was  the  widders." 

And  the  bended  bow  and  the  voice  passed  on,  toward 
Hartshorne's,  and  so  to  the  Bridge. 

Dinner  at  twelve,  half  an  hour  earlier  than  the 
Gay  worthy  wont.  At  one,  a  grand  council  of  one,  in 
the  red  room,  with  bolted  door,  over  four  dresses. 

The  purple  jaconet  was  fresh  and  new;  but  then  the 
pink  muslin  was  so  bright  and  becoming ;  too  dressy, 
perhaps,  with  its  four  little  flouncings ;  Gershom  hated 
finery  so.  Oh  dear!  if  one  could  only  look  one's 
prettiest,  without  keeping  the  reason  why  in  sight! 
The  dark-blue  foulard  was  what  she  would  naturally 
have  put  on  for  a  common  drive  over  to  cousin 
Wealthy 's;  and  it  would  grow  cool  at  dusk;  but,  oh 
dear,  no !  that  would  never  do  for  this  occasion.  An 
old  thing,  — mourning,  besides,  somewherei,  over 
there,  on  the  other  side  the  world,  —  and  he  just  home 


324  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

alive  and  well,  by  a  hair-breadth  escape,  and  who 
knows  what  marvel  of  courage!  If  she  could  have 
ventured  on  the  white,  —  but  that  was  too  manifest  a 
getting  up.  These  first  days  of  June  had  been  sum 
mer  in  fact  as  well  as  name ;  but,  up  here  among  the 
mountains,  people  were  slow  in  coming  to  trust  the 
summer,  —  to  the  extent  of  white  muslin. 

Say  turned  back  to  the  purple  lawn;  good  sense  and 
good  taste  compromised  upon  this.  She  huddled  the 
other  dresses  into  the  press,  and  pulled  her  hair  down 
with  one  hand,  while  she  unfastened  the  door  with  the 
other.  Aunt  Rebecca  was  outside,  come  to  see  if  she 
were  ready.  The  hair  must  come  down  and  go  up 
again,  though  Aunt  Rebecca  would  not  have  seen  the 
necessity. 

"In  five  minutes,  Auntie!  If  you  come  in,  I  shall 
get  chattering.  Just  go  off  like  a  dear,  and  I  won't 
be  any  time." 

But  Rebecca  and  Joanna  waited  twenty  minutes, 
talking  with  Mary  Makepeace,  who  came  in  for  a 
pitcher  of  yeast  and  to  hear  more,  or  over  again,  about 
it  all.  Then  they  began  to  call  up  the  stairs,  and 
called  alternately,  for  five  minutes  longer ;  and  then 
at  last  the  little  lady  came  down.  Not  gay,  —  not 
fine,  but  somehow  things  could  not  be  fresh  on  her 
without  proclaiming  their  freshness.  There  is  such  a 
difference  in  women  about  this ;  and  from  the  straight 
white  line  between  the  dark,  waving  bands  of  her  hair 
to  the  tip  of  the  little  black  gaiter  boot,  she  was  fin 
ished,  —  and  just  finished,  marvelously. 

"Isn't  your  dress  too  thin?  " 

"Oh,  Aunt  Becsie!  this  jaconet?  Why,  it's  as 
thick  as  —  pasteboard!  It 's  only  a  nice  kind  of  cal 
ico." 

"I  don't  know, — it  isn't  out  of  the  common,  to 
be  sure,  when  you  come  to  examine,  and  yet  —  it 


THEN  AND  NOW.  325 

looks  —  well,  if  it  was  unbleached  sheeting,  I  suppose 
you  'd  bloom  out  in  it!  "  Aunt  Joanna's  slight  doubt 
worked  itself  off  so,  with  an  accent  of  pride,  and  a 
loving  little  tip  of  the  chin,  lifting  up  a  bright  face 
and  graceful  head  that  could  but  have  bloomed  truly 
from  whatever  sort  of  calyx. 

It  was  only  a  simple  white-grounded  lawn,  spotted 
thickly  with  tiny  purple  pansies ;  but  there  were  dainty 
puffings  about  waist  and  sleeves,  and  delicate  lace  at 
the  throat ;  and,  altogether,  she  might  have  gone  so  to 
a  ball,  and  looked  lovely ;  or  come  down  to  breakfast 
in  it  equally  lovely,  and  defiant  of  criticism. 

Sarah  Gair  and  Gershom  Vorse  had  not  met  for  five 
years  past.  Then  it  had  been  at  Hilbury,  as  now; 
when  she  was  fourteen,  and  he  twenty.  He  was  mate 
of  a  vessel  then,  sailing  from  New  York.  Blackmere 
was  in  the  same  ship,  second  officer.  The  old  Pearl 
had  been  sold  away.  She  went  into  smaller  coastwise 
trade.  Blackmere  loved  the  brig,  but  he  loved  Ger 
shom  Vorse  better.  Gershom  must  rise.  It  was  his 
duty  in  life,  and  he  had  chances.  Education,  which 
was  the  greatest  chance  of  all.  Blackmere  cared  for 
no  advancement,  whether  he  could  have  got  it  or  not. 
He  barnacled  himself  to  Gershom  now,  and  shipped 
with  him  always.  Gershom  looked  out  for  that,  and 
carried  his  point,  or  gave  up  all  the  rest.  They  had 
been  in  the  Ceres  last,  round  the  Northwest  coast  for 
sandal-wood  and  furs ;  home  by  China,  to  load  with 
teas  and  silks.  Gershom  had  seen  the  world  —  a 
sailor's  sight  of  it  —  over  and  over. 

And  Say  had  lived  on  in  her  world,  —  half  a  dozen 
streets,  a  couple  of  score  of  drawing-rooms,  four 
houses,  perhaps,  where  she  was  intimate  enough  to  go 
upstairs  when  there  was  no  party.  This  world  of 
hers  opened  out  toward  the  great  hills,  though;  this 
had  saved  her  from  utter  narrowness  and  stagnation. 


326  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

And  she  had  books ;  but  they  were  to  her  life  what 
Gershom's  sailor-books  had  been  to  the  great  sea;  that 
lay  all  beyond,  in  its  might  and  mystery,  transcending 
dreams. 

Could  these  two  join  their  sympathies  at  the  point 
where  their  intercourse  had  broken  off?  Could  they 
stand  again  at  that  instant  of  hope  and  resolve,  and 
look,  in  the  light  of  it,  at  this  moment  of  achievement  ? 
Hope  and  achievement  never  are  so  joined.  The  years 
and  the  labor  lie  between.  It  was  a  boy  of  thirteen 
that  had  lain  on  the  gray  rock  under  the  plum-tree, 
asking  Say,  the  child  of  seven,  what  the  sea  was  like. 
It  was  a  man  of  twenty-five,  who  had  traversed  the 
hemispheres,  and  measured  his  manhood  against  the 
elements,  who  came  home  to-day  with  a  deed  in  his 
life  where  a  resolve  had  been. 

Say,  who  had  had  "all  these  years  longer  to  be  a 
little  girl,"  had  achieved,  it  seems,  nothing  but  her 
growth,  her  bloom,  and  her  woman-garb.  Nothing 
else  that  Gershom  could  apprehend.  She  could  but 
put  on  her  pansy-robe  and  come  to  him,  so,  with  her 
best. 

She  could  go  back.  Those  moments  under  the 
plum-tree  were  fresh  and  vivid  to  her.  It  was  to  her 
as  if  Gershom  had  leaped  from  that  to  this;  as  if, 
an  instant  ago,  he  had  said,  I  will  do  this;  as  if, 
without  conscious  pause,  she  could  cry  to  him  exult- 
ingly,  "  Oh,  Gershie,  it  is  done !  " 

She  thought,  too,  in  her  secret  heart,  that  she  had 
achieved  something.  To  have  grown  into  her  woman 
liness  and  beauty,  as  he  into  his  manliness  and  daring, 
—  was  this  nothing?  Would  he  not  be  pleased  to  see 
her  as  she  was  to-day?  This  her  little  feminine  — 
what  you  please,  gave  a  warmer  glow  to  her  anticipa 
tion. 

And  what  came  of  it? 


THEN  AND  NOW.  327 

A  grasping  of  hands,  a  greeting  of  words,  great 
asking  of  questions,  brief,  sailorly  answers,  a  making 
light  of  whatever  he  had  done,  a  holding  back  of  the 
very  thing  Say  secretly  felt  a  share  in. 

He  talked  more  to  the  aunts  than  to  her.  Once  she 
caught  a  stray  glance  —  something  of  the  old,  meas 
uring  look,  taking  her  in,  from  the  little  violet  neck- 
ribbon  to  the  hem  of  the  wide-floating  summer  dress 
—  that  made  her  feel  suddenly  flimsy  before  him,  the 
stout,  brave  fellow,  in  rough  dark  blue,  with  hair 
tossed  in  an  unconscious  grace,  and  eyes  that  looked 
straight  on,  —  that  she  could  not  fancy  ever  had 
stopped  short  at  a  self-image.  Well,  would  he  have 
her  dowdy  ?  A  woman  must  do  something  to  herself. 
It  would  be  more  painstaking  to  make  herself  a  fright. 

So  she  lifted  up  her  head  in  a  little  assured,  defiant 
way,  as  one  who  could  not  help  it,  and  really  did  not 
care  much  that  she  were  young  and  pretty,  — the 
youngest  and  prettiest  there.  Also,  there  must  be  a 
first  time  of  putting  on  anything;  even  a  jaconet  with 
purple  pansies. 

She  got  away  into  the  dairy,  by  and  by,  with  cousin 
Wealthy,  going  to  skim  the  cream  for  tea. 
"He  doesn't  tell  us  half,"  said  she. 
"He  is  n't  much  for  glorifying!     He  won't  go  round 
tellin'  it  over  and  over.     He  told  his  mother  last  night, 
and  I  suppose  he  thinks  that 's  enough." 

"But  you  know.  Oh,  do  tell  me,  cousin  Wealthy, 
all  about  it !  " 

"I  couldn't.  It  takes  a  sailor.  They  were  on  their 
beam-ends,  and  the  Lord  knows  what.  And  the  sea 
made  a  clean  breach,  and  they  were  knocked  about 
amongst  lee-scuppers,  and  cabooses,  and  things ;  and 
two  men  were  washed  overboard.  And  the  top  main 
mast  went,  and  they  cut  away  the  rigging,  and  they 
drove  before  the  wind  till  morning.  Arid  then  the  gale 


328  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

went  down,  but  there  was  a  great  leak,  and  the  men 
were  for  getting  off  in  the  boats.  But  the  captain  — 
that  's  Gershom,  you  know,"  —  Say  nodded,  —  "and 
the  mate  —  that  's  Blackmere,  his  great  friend  —  said 
no,  they  should  stick  by  the  ship  and  the  women.  There 
were  two  women  passengers,  one  of  'em  the  cap'n's 
widow,  and  the  other  was  a  sick  lady  coming  home 
from  Calcutta.  So,  at  that,  the  men  were  shamed, 
and  made  up  their  minds  to  stick  by  too.  And  they 
worked  away  at  the  pumps;  and  after  a  while  they 
found  the  leak ;  and  they  patched  and  rigged  up  again, 
somehow,  and  they  had  pleasant  weather  and  they 
came  on.  And  they  say  Gershie  saved  the  ship  from 
first  to  last.  It  was  all  in  the  paper  he  brought  home 
in  his  pocket;  but  when  he  'd  showed  it  to  his  mother, 
he  just  took  it  and  poked  it  under  the  kitchen  fire,  as 
cool  as  you  please.  I  think  it  kinder  worked  her,  not 
to  have  it  to  put  away;  but  she  was  prouder  of  him 
for  his  doin'  it,  after  all.  She  don't  talk  about  it, 
but  she  goes  round  looking  —  as  if  '  nobody  was  Cor 
poral  but  your  father  and  I !  ' 

"Oh,  belay,  cousin  Wealthy !  Do  you  think  a  yarn  's 
the  better  for  so  much  over-spinning  ?  " 

The  captain  himself  said  this,  coming  in  suddenly 
at  the  door  between  kitchen  and  dairy. 

Cousin  Wealthy  looked  a  little  abashed,  —  an  ama 
teur  caught  meddling  with  his  art  by  a  professional, — 
and  wondered  how  much  he  had  heard,  and  how  much 
she  had  mixed  up  the  sea-phrases.  Say  dropped  the 
spoon  with  which  she  had  been  stirring  together  a  whole 
five-quart  pan  of  milk,  with  its  twelve  hours'  rising 
of  cream,  while  she  listened  to  the  story,  and  made  a 
spring  toward  him. 

"  Oh,  Gershie !  "  she  cried,  "  I  knew  it !  I  always 
knew  you  would !  " 

"  Pshaw  1  "  said  the  sailor.      But  he  did  not  say  it 


THEN  AND  NOW.  329 

roughly,  and  he  could  but  take,  for  a  moment,  the  two 
little  hands  stretched  out  to  him  in  eager  enthusiasm. 
The  next  instant  they  were  dropped,  and  Say  burned 
all  over  at  the  thought  of  her  forwardness. 

All  Captain  Vorse  did  to  help  her  was  to  walk  off 
first,  out  of  the  dairy. 

"If  he  is  n't  easier  scared  than  pleased,"  said 
cousin  Wealthy  to  herself,  in  an  amaze;  "no  wonder 
beam-ends  couldn't  start  him!  " 

Fine  and  affected!  That  was  what  he  thought  of 
her.  That  was  what  she  had  done  with  her  purple 
ribbons  and  puffs,  and  her  gladness  and  her  pride  in 
him.  People  do  feel  things  in  their  bones,  or  more 
interiorly.  Sarah  Gair  was  sure  of  this,  though  Ger- 
shom  had  given  her  neither  word  nor  look  that  she 
could  quite  charge  with  proof  of  it ;  though  he  had 
just  treated  her  like  anybody  else.  Ah,  that  was  it! 
The  old  time  was  gone,  and  their  relation  in  it.  She 
had  no  claim,  after  all ;  no  share  beyond  others,  in  this 
man-work  of  his,  though  she  had  listened  to  his  boy- 
dreams  and  left  her  play  for  them  ;  though  she  had  first 
shown  him  the  sea,  and  made  him  free  of  the  wonder 
ful  Pearl.  He  was  no  longer  "Gershie;  "  though  she 
did  forget  and  call  him  so,  and  put  her  hands  out  to 
him,  in  that  ridiculous  way,  that  he  only  "pshawed  " 
at  and  did  n't  care  for  the  feeling  of;  he  was  a 
great,  brown,  whiskered  sea-captain ;  he  never  once 
called  her  Say ;  what  a  fool  she  was !  how  her  breath 
quickened  and  her  face  tingled  as  she  thought  of  it, 
riding  home  silently  with  the  aunts,  in  the  dusky 
evening ! 

She  knew  she  had  looked  stiff  and  silly;  she  had 
not  been  herself;  she  could  not  do  herself  justice  in 
his  presence ;  she  was  so  afraid,  had  always  been,  of 
his  contempt. 

It  had  ended  miserably,  —  this  glad  day. 


330  THE  GAYWOBTHYS. 

At  the  same  moment,  Captain  Gershom  Vorse  was 
driving  away  the  thought  of  how  bright  and  pretty  the 
girl  had  looked,  with  her  glad,  eager  way,  and  her 
outstretched  hands,  and  her  proud  congratulation  spoken 
in  eye  and  color  more  than  in  word,  with  another 
"pshaw!  "  mental,  and  more  emphatic. 

He  did  not  believe  in  her ;  he  did  not  want  to  be 
lieve  in  her;  she  was  Jane  Gair's  child;  she  had  been 
brought  up  to  that  vain,  pretentious  city  life ;  she  was 
sham  like  all  of  it.  And  she  wore  puffed  muslin, 
and  dainty  boots,  and  looked  like  a  thing  in  a  shop- 
window. 

At  the  best,  what  business  had  such  as  Aunt  Jane 
and  she  in  a  world  like  this,  where  there  were  poverty 
and  nakedness,  —  crime  and  pain  and  danger  ?  Where 
the  weak  were  wronged,  and  the  miserable  trampled 
under  foot,  and  the  ignorant  sat  in  darkness  ?  Going 
up  and  down  the  earth,  had  he  not  seen  all  this,  — 
he,  at  twenty-five  even?  Living  among  rough,  rude, 
brave,  generous,  coarse,  vicious,  ill-used  men,  how  had 
he  come  to  think  of  paltry  life  like  theirs  ? 

What  would  Ned  Blackmere  say  to  such  a  woman? 
The  rough,  stalwart,  sterling  fellow,  whom  the  world 
had  handled  so  fiercely,  had  battered  and  banged  about, 
but  had  never  banged  the  truth  and  courage  out  of; 
who  would  stand  by  him,  Gershom  knew,  in  his  grand 
loyalty  of  friendship,  to  the  last  plank? 

"You've  got  a  mother,  boy,  make  much  of  her; 
but  take  care  of  your  bones,  and  keep  clear  of  the 
rest !  " 

He  remembered  that  Blackmere  had  said  this;  the 
-Han  who  had  had  sister  and  wife. 

So  he  weighed  by  a  harsh  standard,  and  judged 
with  a  bitter  judgment,  —  borrowing  from  this  man  of 
sterner,  harder  experience, —  the  girl-life  of  nineteen 
years. 


THEN  AND  NOW.  331 

Yet  this  very  weighing  and  judging, — what  did 
it  prove?  That  he  himself  was  but  twenty  five, 
after  all.  That  he  could  not  put  away,  without 
much  thought,  this  image  of  his  little  playmate  Say. 
He  might  have  been  harder;  he  might  have  let  her 
alone. 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

BROWN   BREAD. 

SOMETHING  was  very  pleasant ;  something  was  hor 
ribly  uncomfortable. 

These  two  flashes  of  sensation,  or  recollection  in 
such  quick  succession  as  to  seem  mingled,  roused  Say 
next  morning  to  complete  wakefulness,  after  the  first 
faint  creeping  back  of  consciousness,  whereby  the  stray 
elements  of  existence  concentred  themselves,  and  made 
her  aware,  fiist,  of  her  body  lying  on  the  bed,  then  of 
the  life  she  lived  in  it,  whose  thread  was  to  be  taken 
up  again. 

This  mystery  of  sleep!  This  greater  mystery  of 
waking!  If  we  could  fathom  them,  we  should  have 
fathomed  ourselves,  and  Life,  and  Death! 

From  the  child  who  goes  to  bed  with  his  last  new 
toy  hugged  to  his  bosom,  or  his  new  shoes  by  the  bed 
side,  to  the  man  or  woman  with  the  last  deep  joy  or 
mighty  grief  that  is  to  lie  still  awhile  and  be  lost 
only  for  an  intenser  grasp  upon  the  whole  soul  when 
the  soul  regathers  itself,  —  a  world  of  human  being 
vanishes  nightly  into  the  great  unknown,  and  orbs  it 
self  again  into  myriad  identities'  at  the  recall  of  Day, 
as  the  stars  were  born  out  of  darkness  when  the  Voice 
said,  Let  there  be  Light ! 

To  begin  where  each  left  off;  with  the  hope,  the 
plan,  the  unfolding  knowledge,  to  be  taken  up  as  it 
was  dropped.  Grand  or  trivial,  base  or  beneficent, 
involving  an  hour's  pastime,  a  revelation  of  science,  a 
crime  completed,  a  nation's  fate,  a  soul's  salvation,  — • 
human  thought,  interest,  purpose,  whatever  it  may  be, 


BROWN  BREAD.  333 

recovers  itself  out  of  the  pause  and  darkness,  return 
ing  inevitably  unto  its  own. 

Gershom  was  come  back.  The  old  days  could  never 
come  back.  She  was  glad;  she  was  disappointed; 
she  was  pained,  puzzled,  ashamed,  a  little  resentful. 
She  bit  her  lip  and  pressed  her  face  down  into  her 
pillow,  as  a  certain  quick  spasm  of  keen  re-sufferance 
came  over  her. 

She  did  not  care!  She  had  done  nothing  wrong, 
nothing  to  be  ashamed  of.  Only  —  she  would  never 
do  it  again ! 

Life  moved  forward  in  its  simple  channel.  To-day 
need  not  necessarily  continue  at  once  the  chief  interest 
of  yesterday.  That  lives,  but  bides  its  time. 

The  day  broadened.  Breakfast  was  done.  Say 
and  Aunt  Joanna  sat  in  the  south  chamber  window, 
with  a  little  old-fashioned  light-stand  between  them, 
holding  their  bits  of  work;  and  it  happened  that  they 
held  a  talk  together,  touching  by  chance  upon  a  certain 
other  interest  in  Sarah's  life,  not  wholly  detached 
from  or  irrelative  to  the  rest.  Nothing  is.  In  hu 
man  history  there  is,  really  and  strictly,  no  such  thing 
as  an  episode. 

It  was  Joanna's  window;  the  very  one  wherein  the 
flutter  of  white  draperies  and  the  shining  of  the  night- 
candle  had  been  watched  years  ago,  and  might  be  still, 
from  that  other  window  opening  this  way  in  the  farm 
house  gable,  down  the  road.  Joanna  loved  this  win 
dow.  Had  this  and  that  to  do  with  each  other?  She 
made  her  customary  seat  here.  Every  woman  who 
loves  womanly  work  has  her  nook  wherein  to  do  it. 
Turn  her  out  of  it,  and  she  is  all  astray ;  like  a  bird 
with  her  nest  broken  up.  The  brown  light-stand, 
with  the  work-basket  and  the  Bible,  stood  here  always. 
And  there  was  a  holy  time  at  night,  when  the  answer 
ing  gleam  came  from  the  red  gable,  when  without  ever 


334  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

a  word  of  knowledge,  two  hearts  told  themselves  of 
the  one  thought  that  held  them  both;  two  children  of 
God  felt  themselves  one  in  Him;  their  souls  finding 
each  other  before  Him.  Non-professors  these,  both 
of  them,  hardly  reckoned  among  the  elect,  according 
to  old  church  rules,  here  in  Hilbury;  yet  the  one, 
looking  at  the  life  of  the  other,  divined  its  secret 
spring,  and  said  of  him,  "That  's  the  best  Christian 
in  Hilbury;  "  and  the  heart  of  the  other  hallowed  the 
woman  he  had  loved,  and,  thinking  of  her  nightly 
prayer,  he  sent  up  his  own  to  heaven  beside  it.  So 
their  feet  walked  separate  paths,  but  their  spirits  went 
God-ward,  hand  in  hand. 

It  is  not  the  sunshine,  or  any  other  tangible  why, 
that  accounts  for  the  pleasantness  of  old  house-corners. 
It  is  the  pureness  and  pleasantness  that  have  clustered 
there ;  the  very  walls  have  drunk  these  in.  Shall  the 
leaven  of  pest  lurk  and  infect,  and  these  escape  ? 
The  air  of  an  old  home  is  full  of  their  beneficent  con 
tagion. 

Say  could  not  have  told  the  reason,  but  she  was  al 
ways  especially  peaceful  and  cheery  in  this  particular 
south  window.  It  wrought  with  her  now.  The  cur 
rent  of  her  thoughts  was  turned.  Her  spirits  reacted. 

"I  wish  I  had  been  born  in  the  country,  and  always 
lived  here,"  she  said.  "I  think  it  would  have  made 
more  of  me.  People's  lives  are  real,  here;  and 
everybody  has  one  of  their  own." 

Aunt  Joanna  lifted  her  eyebrows  a  little. 

"And  not  in  the  city?  "  she  said. 

"Not  half  so  much.  For  the  most  part,  they  seem 
to  be  trying  to  get  into  other  people's  lives.  And 
then,  —  everybody  makes  up  their  mind  to  all  sponge 
cake,"  Say  said,  laughing.  She  had  never  forgotten 
the  misdemeanor  of  her  childhood.  It  had  grown  into 
a  proverb  of  expression  with  her. 


BROWN  BEE  AD.  335 

"And  the  sponge  cake  don't  go  round?  " 

"No,"  said  Say.  "And,  oh  dear!  I've  been  so 
hungry  sometimes,  for  plain  brown  bread !  " 

Under  the  parable,  Joanna  knew  very  well  what 
the  child  meant. 

"It  's  my  low  taste,  perhaps.  Mother  seems  to 
think  so;  but  I  like  nice  people,  too.  Only  there's 
a  kind  of  common,  comfortable,  really-in-earnest  liv 
ing,  that  I  always  wanted  to  know  more  about." 

"Down  Gay  Street,  for  instance." 

"Oh,  yes;  how  I  did  use  to  wish,  sometimes,  that 
we  lived  in  Gay  Street !  I  shall  never  forget  the  Car 
penters  in  that  second  house  round  the  corner.  I 
could  look  from  our  windows  right  over  into  theirs. 
There  were  four  of  them,  sisters;  and  I  never  had  a 
sister !  They  went  to  some  town  school,  and  they  wore 
dark  calico  dresses  just  alike,  and  white  aprons  bound 
with  colors ;  and  they  used  to  come  home  laughing  and 
singing,  round  by  the  alley,  and  in  at  the  yard-gate. 
I  've  watched  them,  and  listened  to  them  by  the  hour, 
playing  in  that  yard,  under  the  horse-chestnut.  They 
made  fairy-slippers,  pink  and  purple  and  white,  pulled 
from  off  the  balsam  blossoms ;  and  set  them,  by  pairs, 
along  the  brick  edge  of  the  border.  I  used  really  to 
believe  the  fairies  came  at  night  and  got  them.  In 
the  winter  they  stayed  upstairs,  and  sat  in  the  broad 
window-seats  and  dressed  dolls.  Oh,  how  I  wished  I 
was  a  Carpenter  girl!  They  moved  away,  years  ago. 
I  've  heard  father  say  that  Mr.  Carpenter  had  grown  a 
rich  man  in  Boston.  But  I  do  hope  those  girls  have 
as  good  a  time  together  as  they  used  to  then!  " 

"And  you  never  played  with  them?  " 

"Well,  — not  lawfully,  or  comfortably.  I  did  get 
into  the  allay  sometimes,  and  they  'pulled  me  in.' 
Father  used  to  laugh  so  at  that  excuse!  But  it  was 
one  of  the  strictly  forbidden  things." 


336  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

"I  suppose  mothers  know  best,  and  city  is  different 
from  country,  but  I  don't  think  the  brown  bread  would 
have  hurt  you." 

Say  sat  still  a  minute,  her  two  hands  on  her  lap 
holding  her  work  forgetfully;  presently  a  smile  crept 
up  to  her  eyes,  and  she  lifted  them,  smile  and  all,  to 
Joanna,  saying,  with  a  quiet,  quaint  little  mischief  of 
her  own,  "There  's  one  little  cupboard,  though,  where 
I  do  go  and  get  a  bit,  now  and  then." 

Joanna  waited. 

"And,  rich  or  poor,  Grace  Lowder  has  more  in  her 
than  any  girl  I  ever  knew." 

"Who  is  Grace  Lowder  ?" 

"She  's  a  seamstress.  I  never  go  without  my  mo 
ther's  knowledge;  and  most  often  it  is  about  the  work. 
But  I  carry  her  things  sometimes,  —  fruit,  and  flow 
ers,  and  books ;  and  sit  and  read  to  her  while  she 
works.  Mother  doesn't  object  to  that;  it  is  differ 
ent  ;  it  is  charity.  Grace  Lowder  is  quite  beneath  me ; 
she  never  need  be  invited  and  meet  other  people,  you 
know. " 

Joanna's  lip  curled  a  little,  involuntarily.  "How 
came  you  to  know  so  much  of  her?  "  she  said. 

"She  comes  to  St.  James  Sunday-school.  I  never 
noticed  her  till  one  day  Dr.  Linslee  brought  her  to  our 
class.  Her  teacher  was  absent,  and  all  her  class,  ex 
cept  herself.  We  all  stared  a  little,  I  suppose,  as  she 
came  in.  But  I  stared  because  I  could  n't  help  it. 
Some  of  the  girls  looked  at  her  in  that  hard,  strange, 
astonished  way  they  have,  as  if  it  weren't  quite  cer 
tain  what  order  of  natural  history  she  belonged  to. 
But  I  thought  I  had  never  seen  anything  more  lovely. 
She  had  on  a  soft  woolen  dress,  of  that  purple-gray, 
—  just  like  those  grass-blooms ;  "  Say  glanced  across 
at  an  old  china  vase  upon  a  corner  shelf,  filled  with 
graceful  spears  and  tassels,  among  which  peculiar, 


BROWN  BREAD.  337 

soft,  gray-purple,  feathery  heads,  in  the  perfection  of 
their  natural  tint,  were  heaped  conspicuously;  "and 
her  shawl  was  gray,  with  a  narrow  stripe  of  purple  in 
the  border.  Her  bonnet,  too,  with  a  plain  purple 
ribbon  crossed  upon  it.  But  her  face  was  so  sweet! 
She  is  almost  always  pale,  I  know  now;  her  skin  is 
fine  and  clear  as  a  roseleaf ;  but  she  was  a  little  fright 
ened  at  us  all,  and  she  had  such  a  bright,  lovely  color ! 
And  when  she  lifted  her  eyes,  they  were  purple-gray, 
too,  with  long  lashes.  And  her  lips  looked  half  sad 
and  half  happy,  just  dropped  a  little  at  the  corners, 
and  tucked  away  into  dimples  that  showed  with  the 
least  tremble.  She  was  just  like  a  picture.  But  she 
had  a  crutch,  Auntie;  she  was  lame.  And  yet  she 
was  as  graceful  as  she  could  be.  She  drooped  down, 
somehow,  into  her  seat,  without  any  spread  or  rustle ; 
and  the  gray  dress  fell  round  her  like  a  cloud.  No 
thing  she  had  on  was  new ;  but  everything  was  as  nice 
as  new,  —  without  a  speck.  I  think  that  is  the  thing ; 
anybody  can  put  on  new  clothes,  and  be  spick-and- 
span;  but  everybody  can't  wear  them,  and  wear  them, 
and  look  as  if  they  'd  never  been  near  any  dirt. 

"Well,  that  was  the  beginning  of  it.  Her  teacher 
was  sick  and  had  to  give  up  her  class ;  and  the  scholars 
were  divided  round.  Grace  Lowder  stayed  with  us. 
Miss  Westburn  went  to  see  her,  and  found  out  all 
about  her ;  and  she  spoke  to  some  of  us  about  her  wish 
ing  for  more  work  to  do ;  sewing  or  dressmaking.  Her 
mother  had  been  a  dressmaker,  and  had  taught  her 
the  trade ;  but  she  had  died  a  year  before.  .  Miss 
Westburn  was  married  the  next  summer,  and  she  gave 
her  her  wedding-dress  to  make.  After  that  she  had 
plenty  of  work;  and  mother  has  let  me  go  to  her. 
She  works  at  people's  houses  when  they  wish  it,  but 
I  don't  wish  it;  I  couldn't  bear  that,  Aunt  Joanna! 
Grace  Lowder 's  little  room  is  the  pleasantest  place  I 
know  in  Selport! 


338  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

"She  boards  and  lodges  just  where  she  did  for 
years,  while  her  mother  lived.  A  nice,  comfortable 
widow  woman  keeps  the  house ;  she  was  very  kind  to 
her  mother,  Grace  says ;  and  Grace  has  nobody  else  in 
the  world  to  go  to.  I  asked  her  one  day  what  she 
would  do,  if  Mrs.  Hopeley  died,  or  went  away.  She 
may  go,  some  time,  to  live  with  one  of  her  sons,  who, 
she  says,  are  'likely  men,  both  of  'em,  and  very  for- 
rard  in  their  means ;  '  but  Grace  only  smiled,  and  said 
there  would  always  be  a  place  for  her  in  the  world,  as 
long  as  God  kept  her  here ;  she  was  not  afraid. " 

Aunt  Joanna  broke  in  here. 

"And  this  is  Selport  brown  bread!  I  don't  know 
what  the  fine  wheat  must  be, "  said  she. 

"Tasteless  enough,  sometimes, — the  heart  all 
bolted  out  of  it,"  said  Say. 

"But  I  must  tell  you  about  her  room,"  she  re 
sumed,  after  a  little  pause  of  stitching  that  she  made 
between  her  paragraphs.  "It  is  a  corner  house, 
where  two  streets  cross,  two  narrow  streets;  and  the 
angles  of  the  blocks  are  cut  off,  and  the  front  doors  set 
in  at  the  corners.  It  is  a  queer  little  square;  some 
person  of  odd  taste  must  have  been  the  owner  of  the 
property,  and  laid  it  out  and  built  it  up  to  please  him 
self.  There  are  the  four  sociable  front  doors,  and 
four  windows  over  them,  facing  each  other  diagonally, 
and  looking  each  other  right  through,  —  like  the  four 
cats  in  the  riddle.  Grace  Lowder's  room  is  the  sec 
ond-story  one.  The  two  side  windows  she  keeps  for 
her  plants.  The  corner  one  she  sits  in,  at  her  sewing. 
Opposite  this  is  a  corner  fireplace.  On  one  side  is  her 
bed,  and  in  the  other  a  wide  press-closet.  She  has  a 
little  round  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  with  a 
few  books ;  and  the  coarse  old  carpet  —  with  bright, 
strong  colors,  though,  that  make  it  look  cheery  —  is 
always  swept  up  clean  of  every  shred,  and  always  has 


BEOWN  BREAD.  339 

the  sun  shining  on  it,  —  that  is,  unless  it  don't  shine 
anywhere,  —  for  it  is  a  southwest  corner.  And  Grace 
Lowder  lives  the  happiest,  sweetest,  most  contented 
life  there !  " 

"Why,  Say,  it 's  brown  bread  to  make  your  mouth 
water!  " 

"  Down  the  street,  to  the  west,  —  that  narrow 
street,  Auntie,  between  the  high,  close  houses,  —  she 
has  a  view.  She  calls  it  so.  The  tops  of  a  few  green 
trees  in  some  gardens  in  Front  Street,  —  a  little  spar 
kle  of  the  bay,  and  a  stripe  of  sky.  And  she  watches 
every  night  for  the  sunsets!  One  little  scrap  of  a 
crimson  cloud,  perhaps,  or  the  stripe  of  sky  turned 
yellow  and  shading  up  into  blue  between  the  chimney- 
tops!  What  would  she  say  to  look  out  here  over  the 
sea  of  little  hills?  Or  to  get  at  cousin  Wealthy's 
dairy  window  and  see  down  the  mountain- side,  out 
over  the  great  pond  ?  " 

"You  say  she  goes  to  work  at  people's  houses?" 
asked  Joanna  rather  irrelevantly,  as  it  might  seem, 
to  the  last  sentences. 

"When  they  want  her,  yes;  but  I  think  she  likes 
her  little  room  best." 

"Would  she  come  a  hundred  miles,  think,  if  she 
could  be  paid  for  it  ?  " 

"Aunt  Joanna!      You  don't  mean  "  — 

"I  don't  know  as  I  do.  But  I  feel  exactly  just  at 
this  minute,  as  if  I  was  going  to  have  a  monstrous 
deal  of  sewing  to  do,  some  time  or  other.  Next  sum 
mer,  perhaps." 

As  she  said  this,  Gershom  Vorse  came  riding  into 
the  side-yard. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

UP     BOAR-BACK. 

JOANNA  went  downstairs.  Say  did  not  stir,  far 
ther  than  to  draw  a  little  nearer  to  the  window,  and 
lean  slightly  toward  the  half -closed  blind  that  had 
shaded  them  pleasantly  from  the  southward -sweeping 
sun. 

If  Gershom  wanted  her,  or  if  he  even  got  off  his 
horse  and  came  in,  —  but  neither  of  these  things  did 
he  signify  or  do ;  so  presently  Aunt  Joanna  came  back 
again,  and  the  horse's  hoofs  went  crunching  the  dry, 
savory  chips,  and  then  struck  off  with  sounding  thud 
across  the  sward. 

"Skylark  has  been  out  on  a  flitting,"  Joanna  said, 
reentering.  She  meant  Miss  Purcell,  daughter  of  the 
Congressman  at  Deepwater,  a  youngest  child  left  at 
home  now,  to  be  spoiled,  since  her  elder  sister  and  the 
boys  were  gone.  She  was  a  willful,  winsome  thing; 
they  called  her  Skylark,  as  much  for  her  glad,  bright, 
sun-loving  nature,  as  for  her  merry,  saucy,  daring 
flights.  Also  her  real  name  was  an  uncouth,  grand 
mother's  name,  —  Bathsheba.  Nobody  ever  could  call 
her  so;  it  was  folly  to  have  demanded  it.  Skylark 
grew  to  be  her  ordinary  appellative ;  shortened,  indeed, 
to  Skylie ;  the  nickname  nicked. 

"  She  lit  upon  Gershom  at  the  Bridge, "  continued 
Joanna,  without  all  this  pause  that  we  have  made, 
"and  chirped  him  an  errand  and  sent  him  round.  She  's 
to  chirp  us  all  up  Boar-back  next  Saturday.  We  're 
to  meet  at  the  Corners,  and  go  up  at  two  o'clock." 

"Oh,  glorious !      Then  you  '11  go  ?  " 


UP  BOAE-BACK.  341 

"I  —  don't  know.  It 's  eight  years  since  I  tried  it. 
And  I  'm  eight  years  older  —  and  fatter,  you  see ; 
and  I  don't  know  which  dress  I  'd  better  tear  to 
pieces." 

"Pooh!  make  yourself  just  as  lovely  as  you  can, 
and  never  mind  your  dress  till  you  get  home  again." 

"Make  yourself  lovely!  Well,  you  '11  see!  People 
come  home  from  Boar-back  in  ribbons." 

"That's  gay,  I'm  sure." 

"Strings  and  streamers,  I  tell  you." 

"  How  merry !  '  Some  in  rags,  and  some  in  jags, 
and  some  in  velvet  gowns !  '  '  With  a  band  of  music, 
—  with  a  band  of  music,  with  a  band  of  music  sound 
ing  in  the  air!  ' 

Say  quoted  and  sung,  and  danced  her  feet  upon  the 
floor  to  time.  Her  eyes  danced  too,  with  pleasure. 

"Yes,  I  '11  go,"  said  Joanna,  "only  I  hope  the  two 
she-bears  won't  come  out  of  the  wood  and  tear  the 
naughty  children." 

"Because  they  say,  'go  up, '  to  their  elders?  That 's 
the  worst  we  've  done;  we  've  no  chance  at  the  'bald 
head '  part  here  in  Hilbury,  where  the  old  ladies  all 
have  such  magnificent  hair." 

Joanna  smiled.  She  knew  her  brown,  wavy  locks 
were  as  soft,  and  bright,  and  abundant,  as  a  dozen 
years  ago.  She  cherished  this  and  some  other  little 
vanities,  quite  quietly  and  secretly.  She  was  glad  her 
young  looks  waited.  What  for  ?  She  never  answered 
herself;  many  a  woman  keeps  young,  she  knows  not 
how,  because,  without  saying  it,  she  feels  her  future 
is  not  dead. 

Perhaps  Say  made  the  most  of  her  impulse  of  delight ; 
perhaps  she  overacted  just  a  little,  feeling  an  under- 
pang  of  annoyance.  Yet  she  was  really  joyous  at  the 
thought.  She  trembled  on  the  verge  of  what  might 
come  to  be  a  sorrow ;  but  it  was  not  sorrow  yet ;  she 


342  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

knew  nothing  of  her  danger.  It  was  vexatious  that 
Gershom  should  be  so  chilling,  so  indifferent ;  that  he 
should  have  "pshawed  "  last  night,  and  refused  to  come 
in  this  morning;  but  then  it  was  his  way,  and  he  was 
very  likely  in  a  hurry ;  and  on  Saturday  they  should 
all  go  up  Boar-back  together,  and  somehow  it  would 
all  come  right.  Say's  was  one  of  those  elastic  tem 
peraments  that,  until  the  last  opportunity  is  over,  the 
last  resource  exhausted,  the  last  hope  crushed,  will 
rebound  from  every  check,  spring  up  from  under  every 
disappointment.  She  was  patient,  like  a  sister,  with 
Gershom.  Had  they  not  been  little  children  together? 
Would  they  not  always  be  something  to  each  other? 

For  a  while  this  might  last ;  but  Sarah  Gair  was 
nineteen;  she  was  no  longer  a  child,  but  a  woman; 
and  her  hour  was  coming. 

Gabriel  Hartshorne  left  his  father  with  Mary  Make 
peace  and  a  neighbor  gossip,  come  in  with  her  clean  cap 
and  her  knitting-work  to  spend  a  long  country  after 
noon,  and  drove  Joanna  and  Say  in  the  wagon  to  the 
Corners.  It  was  one  of  his  brief  holidays. 

It  was  one  of  Joanna's  young  days  back  again. 

Joanna  had  on  stout  country  shoes,  laced  up  high  on 
the  instep.  Say  wore  cloth  boots  with  patent  f oxings ; 
nice,  bright,  trim  little  things,  thick  enough,  but  deli 
cate  looking,  such  as  she  walked  in,  in  Selport. 

Gershom  helped  them  down  from  the  wagon  when 
they  came  up  at  the  cross-roads,  below  the  mountain, 
\vhere  the  party  met.  Say  knew  he  glanced  at  the 
foot  she  put  upon  the  thill ;  what  woman  with  a  pretty 
one  does  not  know  when  it  is  seen  ?  And,  though,  he 
never  said  a  word,  she  felt  a  secret  shaft  from  his 
thought  to  hers. 

"There,  he  's  disgusted  again!  At  the  very  begin 
ning!  He  thinks  it  's  all  show-off  and  vanity.  And 
'tis  the  very  clumsiest  pair  I  ever  had  in  all  my  life." 


UP  BOAR-BACK.  343 

From  the  days  of  the  bronze  boots  until  now,  the 
child's  feet  had  inevitably  walked  her  into  trouble  with 
the  captious  fellow.  Don't  hate  him.  He  secretly  saw 
the  prettiness,  just  as  we  do.  He  was  only  provoked 
with  himself  when  he  caught  himself  admiring  what  he 
thought  a  flimsiness.  And  he  was  so  sternly  bent  on 
not  admiring  Sarah  Gair;  because  she  was  her  mother's 
child,  and  he  would  not  believe  in  her. 

He  is  a  sailor ;  he  has  learned  to  hold  his  position 
in  the  teeth  of  the  wind ;  perhaps  he  may  hold  it  now. 

Say  walked  on  without  waiting  for  anybody.  Some 
of  the  first  arrived  had  gone  forward  already,  up  the 
hillocky  slope,  matted  here  and  there  with  the  close, 
flat  junipers,  that  rose  slowly  toward  the  base  of  Boar- 
back.  The  mountain  began  away  out  here  to  gather 
up  the  earth  into  its  mass,  as  the  moon  draws  up  the 
sea  in  breasted  heaps. 

They  strayed  along  in  little  groups,  winding  in  and 
out  as  they  found  pathway.  They  might  scatter  thus, 
for  the  approach  was  broad.  By  and  by  they  must 
file  singly  and  toilsomely  up  the  narrow,  rocky  foot 
way  where  the  real  climb  awaited  them. 

Skylie  Purcell  appropriated  Gershom.  Three  or 
four  village  girls  kept  near  enough  these  two  to  claim 
a  share  of  attention.  Say  listened  to  the  laughing  and 
the  jesting  behind  her,  keeping  her  face  straight  on. 

"  How  in  the  world  did  you  persuade  the  captain  ? 
We  never  can  coax  him  into  anything." 

"I  didn't  stop  to  coax.  I  just  told  him  he  was  to 
come.  Haven't  you  country  girls  learned  how  to  take 
hold  of  a  thistle  ?  " 

"Was  that  it,  Captain  Vorse?  " 

"Something  so,  I  suppose.  She  told  me  straight 
out  what  she  wanted.  I  'm  used  to  short  orders,  you 
know." 

"And  I  never  get  frightened,"  said  Skylie.      "I  go 


344  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

upon  the  principle  that  the  most  terrible  people  are  the 
most  easily  bullied.  You  see  they  never  think  of  any 
body's  trying  it,  and  it  takes  them  right  down.  Cap 
tain  Vorse,  I  want  a  moosewood  stick,  presently. 
You'll  cut  me  one?  " 

"I  suppose  I  shall." 

"That 's  very  meek;  but  it  isn't  a  sailor's  answer, 
I  happen  to  know." 

"What  is?" 

"Ay,  ay  —  ma'am!  "  The  first  syllables  round  and 
full,  in  very  pretty  man-mimicry,  and  the  last  word 
with  an  indescribable  comic  tone  of  confessed  absurd 
ity,  but  a  contradict-me-if-you-dare  insistence. 

They  all  laughed  merrily.  It  takes  little  to  make  a 
young  group  do  that. 

Say  felt  herself  getting  cross.  Did  he  like  that? 
she  wondered.  She  couldn't  have  spoken  to  him  with 
such  pertness,  though  she  had  known  him  years  for 
Skylie's  days.  It  was  the  outrightness  that  pleased 
him,  was  it?  People  might  well  be  outright  where 
they  had  only  little  surface  knowledge  and  interest. 
Say's  thought  went  deep  whenever  she  talked  with 
Gershom,  laying  hold  at  the  roots  of  their  two  lives. 
And  he  always  seemed  to  measure  her  whole  nature  by 
her  lightest  word.  A  corollary  to  be  drawn  from  this 
had  never  yet  occurred  to  either  of  them. 

Gabriel  and  Joanna  and  Ruth  Gibson  came  round 
to  Say's  side  from  beyond  the  cedar  clump  that  had 
divided  them.  Stephen  Gibson  and  John  Blighe,  es 
corting  the  advance,  lingered  a  little  as  they  came  to 
the  edge  of  the  woods  above;  looking  round,  as  they 
said,  for  "  the  rest ;  "  their  eyes  turned  with  one  ac 
cord  toward  Sarah  Gair. 

Into  a  little  glade  where  a  clear  spring  hid  itself, 
they  all  came  presently  together.  The  young  men 
filled  canteens  to  carry  up  the  mountain.  The  girls 


UP  BOAR-BACK.  345 

sat  clown  on  fallen  trees  and  mossy  rocks,  chatting  and 
resting.  Gershom  Vorse  plunged  into  a  thicket  where 
the  moosewood  grew  with  its  tough-grained  stems  and 
broad,  thick  leaves,  and  cut  with  his  sailor's  knife 
stout  staves  for  climbing-poles.  Gabriel  trimmed  and 
peeled  one  he  had  found  already,  rounding  the  end 
carefully,  and  gave  it,  smooth,  finished,  and  delicate 
white,  to  Joanna,  first  of  all. 

"Cut  me  one,  please,"  said  Say.  And  she  sat 
watching  him  as  he  shaped  it  when  Gershom  appeared 
again  with  his  three. 

"This  is  mine,"  she  said,  scarce  glancing  round,  as 
he  held  one  toward  her,  after  Skylie  Purcell  had 
chosen.  "Thank  you,  Mr.  Hartshorne, "  in  a  little 
ecstasy ;  "  it  is  such  a  beauty !  " 

They  moved  on  again,  over  braky  ground,  and 
among  bosks  of  rampant  sweet-fern.  Say  came  next 
after  Joanna,  and  gave  her  hand  with  an  air  of  spe 
cially  charmed  readiness  to  Gabriel,  helping  her  in 
turn,  along  a  huge,  dry,  slippery  log  that  lay  over  a 
springy  spot.  Gershom  saw  the  little  affectation,  and 
set  it  down  for  sheer,  self-pleased  vanity,  not  seeing 
it  quite  through.  He  had  no  business  to  condemn. 
There  are  hypocrisies  of  women,  which,  read  aright, 
are  truest  truths.  Should  Say  have  gone  straight  up 
to  Gershom,  saying,  "  You  are  to  come  with  me ;  it  is 
you  I  want  to  help  me  "  ? 

Skylie  Purcell  might  do  this,  and  it  would  be  sim 
ple  outrightness.  It  would  not  have  told  the  truth 
for  Say.  That  was  better  done  by  the  little  crooked 
ness.  Only,  one  can't  read  cipher  without  the  key. 

"They  were  to  be  all  together,  going  up  Boar-back." 
This  was  what  Say  had  said  to  herself  the  other  day ; 
and  the  opportunity  lay  large  and  golden  to  her 
thought.  Well,  here  they  were;  what  then?  Ger 
shom  was  close  behind  her,  climbing  up  the  narrow 


346  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

path,  as  Gabriel  Hartshorne  was  before.  He  might 
as  well  have  been  beyond  the  seas.  Skylie  Purcell 
chattered  over  his  shoulder,  and  Say  said  never  a 
word.  Gabriel  held  aside  the  tangled  branches  for 
her,  and  Gershom  caught  them,  in  his  turn  again 
smoothing  the  way  for  Skylie. 

The  ascent  grew  rougher.  It  was  the  old  bed  of  a 
mountain-brook,  long  ago  forced  into  some  different 
channel  from  high  above,  that  made  their  path.  There 
were  rocks  where  water  had  gone  tumbling  down,  and 
logs  lying  athwart  the  narrow  gully,  making  long  steps 
and  scrambles  for  them.  Up  these,  sometimes,  a 
strong  arm  lifted  her;  it  happened  so,  from  the  neces 
sity,  —  that  was  all,  and  so  she  scarcely  thanked  him, 
but  kept  on,  not  looking  round. 

A  great  barricade  of  fallen,  tangled,  mossgrcwn 
timber  made  an  end  of  the  brook-path,  and  stopped 
them,  half-way  up.  This  was  the  customary  halt  and 
resting-place.  Here  the  single  file  was  broken,  and 
they  scattered  themselves  in  groups  again.  Joanna, 
a  little  short  of  breath,  and  not  slightly  flushed  in 
face,  —  yet  bright,  and  even  very,  very  pretty  for  all 
tha"1-  and  her  old  maidenhood,  —  leaned  herself  will 
ingly  back  in  a  wild  armchair  of  dead,  curving,  up 
turned  roots,  upon  a  huge  gray  log.  Say  sprang  over 
this,  and  perched  herself  higher.  John  Blighe  and 
the  Gibsons  found  places  near  her.  Skylie  Purcell 
and  Gershom,  coming  last,  were  still  left  to  each  other, 
—  Skylie  contenting  herself  with  a  low,  mossy  cricket 
of  stone,  and  the  captain  half  sitting,  half  leaning 
against  the  farther  upturned  end,  above  and  against 
which  all  the  lesser  debris  were  piled. 

It  was  a  rough  little  amphitheatre  of  rocks  and 
stems  and  branches ;  the  fresh  faces  and  graceful  fig 
ures  and  dresses  of  summer  colors  filled  up  its  irregular 
niches  with  wonderful  effect  of  fitness  and  contrast. 


UP  BOAE-BACK  347 

They  passed  round  shining  little  tin  cups  filled  from 
the  canteens,  and  drank  and  chatted,  growing  merry 
over  their  innocent  tipple. 

"  Now,  Captain  Vorse,  we  want  a  yarn ;  a  real  sail 
or's  yarn!  " 

Skylie  looked  up  and  said  this  with  her  most  unre- 
f usable  expression. 

"  Oh,  yes,  a  yarn !  a  yarn !  "  echoed  the  galleries, 
away  up  to  little  Jimmy  Gibson,  roosting  overhead 
upon  an  oak  limb. 

Gershom's  brown  face  flushed  red.  He  never  cared 
to  tell  stories  of  his  personal  adventure,  and  what  else 
could  a  sailor's  yarn  be? 

Sarah  Gair  listened  with  one  ear,  waiting  his  first 
word  of  reply ;  the  other  she  turned  to  Stephen  Gib 
son,  catching  his  sentences  that  she  cared  not  a  straw 
for,  but  which  she  answered  with  the  mechanical  dex 
terity  women  —  tormented  daily  all  their  lives  in  this 
wise  —  have  such  special  aptness  for. 

"Oh,  I'm  no  yarn-spinner,"  said  the  young  cap 
tain  evasively.  "Besides,  I  'm  not  old  salt  enough 
to  have  so  very  much  to  tell." 

"We  know  better,"  said  Skylie  decidedly.  "Tell 
us  something  to  'make  us  catch  our  breaths,  and  think 
surely  it 's  been  all  over  with  you  half  a  dozen  times, 
even  while  we  're  listening  and  looking  you  full  in  the 
face.  That 's  what  sailors  come  home  from  sea  for!  " 

"Is  it?  But  you  won't  understand  half  I  say,  if  I 
tell  you  a  real  sea-story." 

"Of  course  not.  I  don't  know  any  sea-phrases  ex 
cept  'heave-yoy!  '  and  'ay,  ay,  ma'am!  '  That  's  the 
beauty  of  it.  That  makes  the  story  grand,  and  fright 
ens  us  so  much  more." 

Gershom  Vorse  began  then,  taking  them  by  surprise 
with  his  acquiescence,  making  no  more  preface.  He 
was  not  a  girl,  to  hang  back,  saying  neither  no  nor  yes. 


348  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

"When  we  were  out  in  the  Pearl,  seven  years  or  so 
ago,  bound  to  Pernambuco,  we  had  a  young  sailor  in 
the  starboard  watch,  —  Jack  "  — 

"Oh!  oh!  we  don't  care  about  Jack  anybody.  We 
wanted  a  story  about  yourself !  " 

"I  don't  mean  to  talk  about  myself.  Will  you 
have  the  story,  or  not  ?  " 

The  captain  said  this  quietly,  pleasantly,  and 
waited.  It  was  plain  to  Miss  Purcell  that  he  was 
captain,  after  all.  She  withdrew  her  point  with  a 
show  of  command  still,  insisting  on  the  previous  ques 
tion. 

"Yes,  to  be  sure.  We  shan't  let  you  off  from 
that.  I  'm  glad  he  was  in  the  starboard  watch,  what 
ever  that  is.  It  sounds  nice." 

She  settled  her  dress  about  her  a  little  comfortably, 
and  rested  her  chin  in  a  plump,  pretty  hand,  looking 
up  with  saucy  expectation  into  Gershom's  face. 

Quite  unmoved,  he  proceeded. 

"It  isn't  much  of  a  story.  Only  a  bit  of  danger, 
over  in  five  minutes ;  and  sooner,  in  the  telling.  We 
were  nearly  off  Trinidad,  —  you  know  where  that 
is?" 

"Of  course  I  do.  That 's  geography.  And  'off' 
means  —  anywhere  between  Guiana  and  away  over, 
—  to  Guinea,  say  ?  " 

"Anywhere  less  than  half-way,"  said  Gershom 
smiling. 

"We  were  in  latitude  about  twelve  degrees,  just 
coming  into  the  Doldrums." 

Skylie  clapped  her  hands. 

"Haven't  the  least  idea  what  that  is,"  she  said, 
sotto  voce.  "It 's  growing  very  imposing." 

"It 's  the  latitude  of  sudden  changes,  — calms  and 
gales." 

"Just    my  latitude,"   parenthesized  the    girl   in    a 


UP  BOAR-BACK.  349 

whisper,  like  a  child  bent  on  mischief,  but  afraid  of 
being  chidden. 

"We  'd  been  lying  about  for  three  days,  — nearly 
a  dead  calm,  — when  one  afternoon  toward  sunset,  a 
fresh  breeze  sprang  up  from  the  eastward.  Set  all 
sail  to  catch  it,  and  it  came  up  fresher  and  fresher, 
till  we  were  off  before  it,  on  the  full  jump.  We 
made  the  most  of  it  while  we  could,  for  we  knew  by 
the  looks  of  a  big,  black  bank  to  the  southeast,  that 
we  should  get  more  than  we  wanted  before  morning. 
At  midnight  the  starboard  watch  went  below  and 
turned  in." 

"Turned  in,  —what?" 

"Themselves, — into  their  berths.  I  thought  you 
wanted  it  to  be  mysterious." 

"Oh,  yes,  so  I  do;   go  on." 

"Things  were  creaking  and  straining,  then;  and  we 
kept  half  an  eye  open,  expecting  a  call.  Sure  enough, 
in  less  than  an  hour  it  came !  All  hands,  —  reef  top- 
s'ls!  We  tumbled  up,  and  found  the  mate's  watch 
busy  enough;  all  the  light  sails  taken  in,  topsail  yards 
braced  to  the  wind,  men  hauling  out  upon  the  reef- 
tackles." 

Skylie  clapped  her  hands  again,  soundlessly,  and 
gave  a  little  ecstatic  bounce  upon  her  stone  cricket. 
It  was  growing  delightfully  exciting  and  incomprehen 
sible. 

"The  wind  had  shifted  to  the  southeast,  and  the 
storm  was  upon  us.  The  night  was  black  as  Egypt. 
The  darkness  was  like  a  weight.  We  groped  out  upon 
the  yards,  holding  on  for  dear  life,  the  wind  blowing 
a  hurricane.  The  best  sailor  on  board  had  the  wea 
ther-earing  on  our  yard,  and  it  took  his  best  to  pass 
it  in  time.  We  had  mastheaded  our  sail  first,  though, 
and  we  were  down  on  deck  before  the  larbowlines, 
breathless  and  wet  through ;  for  the  storm  was  a  peeler 


350  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

and  no  mistake.  The  brig  was  pitching  into  a  tremen 
dous  head  sea.  The  waves  came  crashing  over  the  fore 
castle,  every  now  and  then,  with  the  sound  of  the  shat 
tering  white  foam  we  could  not  see.  'Lay  out  there 
forward  and  furl  the  jib!'  Ned  Blackmere  was  the 
one  to  go,  as  he  always  was  when  there  was  tough 
work  to  do.  Close  by  him,  as  the  mate  gave  his  or 
der,  was  a  young  fellow  just  down  from  the  f oretop ; 
a  mother's  child,  sent  to  sea  by  doctor's  prescription 
for  his  health;  never  made  for  a  sailor.  It  was  his 
second  voyage,  and  he  ought  to  have  been  up  to  it,  if 
he  ever  would ;  but  he  had  no  nerve,  and  precious  lit 
tle  muscle.  He  was  in  the  larboard  watch,  and  it 
fairly  belonged  to  him.  But  he  hung  back  a  little ; 
in  another  second,  he  'd  have  been  ordered  by  name, 

—  for    our    mate    never    stood    any    shirking,  —  only 
Jack,  seeing  how  it  was,  and  knowing  if  he  was  once 
out    over   the   bows  there  'd   be    a    fair    chance    he  'd 
never   come  in  again,    sprung  past  him  and  took  the 
poor  devil's  place.      He  thought  of  his  mother  before 
he  got  back  between  the  knight-heads,  again,  I  prom 
ise  you. 

"The  boom  was  under  water  half  the  time.  The 
big  sail  was  jerking  and  filling,  and  the  two  had  their 
hands  full  to  hold  themselves  on,  to  say  nothing  of 
getting  it  down  upon  the  boom." 

Sky  lie  broke  in  timidly. 

"I  must  just  know  where  the  boom  is,  and  how  it 
could  possibly  get  under  water.  1  thought  from  the 
danger,  it  must  be  something  very  high  up." 

Nobody  laughed.  They  were  all  too  much  absorbed, 
by  this  time,  with  the  peril. 

"It  's  the  spar  that  runs  out  beyond  the  bowsprit, 

—  at  the  head  of  the  vessel.      As  the  sea  broke  over, 
and    the    vessel    pitched,    of    course    it    went    under. 
There  was  only  the  wet  timber  to  hold  on  to,  with  the 


UP  BOAR-BACK.  351 

water  dashing  over  you  by  the  ton,  and  the  canvas 
slatting  out  and  in,  in  great  bights,  as  soon  as  it  was 
loosed ;  like  the  side  of  a  house  driving  against  you. " 

"Oh!  "  gasped  Skylie;  and  her  nonsense  all  went 
out  of  her  in  a  shudder. 

"Ned  Blackmere  shouted  like  the  tempest  itself,  to 
the  men  hauling  in  on  deck.  And  he  tugged  like  a 
great,  brave  tiger  at  the  work,  Jack  holding  on  and 
helping  as  he  best  might;  when,  just  as  they  had 
passed  half  a  dozen  turns  with  the  gasket,  there  reared 
up  a  black,  monstrous  wall  just  ahead,  that  they  felt 
beforehand,  as  you  feel  a  door  when  you  're  running 
against  it  in  the  dark,  and  down  it  came,  with  a  hun 
dred  thunders,  over  the  bows  and  the  whole  forward 
deck.  Ned  held  on  by  some  miracle,  and,  coming  up 
out  of  it  gasping,  found  himself  alone  on  the  boom. 

"I  should  n't  have  said  'miracle'  so  soon;  for 
though  it  seemed  one,  that  even  he  should  have  escaped 
being  washed  away,  it  was  more 'than  a  miracle  what 
happened  to  the  other.  He  went  down  off  the  boom, 
struggling  and  grasping  out.  He  felt  the  sprit-sail 
yard,  as  the  wave  dashed  him  athwart  it ;  and  some 
thing  caught  him,  or  he  it,  hands  and  feet,  he  never 
knew  how.  But  he  clung,  all  blind  and  stunned,  and 
smothered ;  and  then  —  I  take  it  —  he  thought  of  his 
mother.  Ned  Blackmere  said  afterwards,  the  time 
seemed  like  a  month  between  his  turning  round,  and 
finding  him  gone,  and  catching  his  breath  and  shouting 
out,  and  the  fellow's  crawling  up  by  the  guys  and 
dolphin- striker.  But  there  he  was,  —  a  little  bruised, 
and  a  good  deal  blown ;  and  all  Ned  said  was,  — 
'Hallo,  shipmate!  Took  the  longest  way  round! 
Just  make  fast  that  gasket  now,  can  you,  inside  the 
cap!  '  That 's  all,  Miss  Purcell.  Those  are  the  sort 
of  things  that  happen  to  sailors.  Sometimes  they 
come  out  of  'em,  and  sometimes  they  don't." 


852  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

They  were  all  still  an  instant,  as  the  story  ended. 
Then  Skylie  drew  a  long  breath,  and  exclaimed,  half 
in  real  emotion,  half  in  drollery :  — 

"Oh  dear!  don't  tell  any  more,  for  pity's  sake! 
I  'd  rather  not  know  it.  I  shall  never  hear  the  wind 
and  rain  at  night  again,  without  thinking  of  poor  fel 
lows  out  in  the  'Doldrums,'  under  water,  holding  on 
by  their  heels  to  dolphin-strikers.  Let  's  go  on." 

Say  had  meant  to  be  very  indifferent,  and  to  go  on 
with  the  Gibsons;  but,  somehow,  on  clambering  down 
from  her  perch,  she  found  herself  very  near  Gershom, 
for  a  minute,  alone. 

Skylie  Purcell  had  sprung  forward,  suiting  her  ac 
tion  to  her  own  word ;  the  captain  had  waited,  giving 
his  hand  to  Joanna,  who  had  passed  him  also  and  pro 
ceeded;  and  Say  came  next. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  them  it  was  yourself?  "  she 
exclaimed,  with  sudden  impulse,  in  an  undertone, 
springing  down  to  his'  side. 

"  Did  you  find  that  out  ?  "  said  he,  quite  naively 
disconcerted.  "I  hope  nobody  else  did." 

"Nobody  else  among  them  knows  you  as  well  as  I 
do,  Ger —  Captain  Vorse." 

Now  he  looked  up,  in  simple  surprise.  "What  do 
you  call  me  that  for  ?  " 

"Why,  you  are,  aren't  you?  And  —  the  other 
night  —  I  forgot,  and  I  felt  quite  ashamed."  Say 
colored  intensely  as  he  looked  at  her,  for  a  moment, 
with  honest,  uncomprehending  eyes,  and  then  turned 
away. 

He  made  no  answer.  He  wondered  what  she 
wanted,  now.  Was  it  a  mere  affectation,  a  caprice, 
to  see  what  he  would  say  ?  Or  was  it  a  way  of  setting 
him  at  a  distance,  of  reminding  him  that  she,  herself, 
was  now  "  Miss  Gair  "  ?  Had  it  to  do  with  the  old 
rankling  suggestion  of  "no  blood  relation,  after  all  "  ? 


UP  BOAR-BACK.  353 

He  was  sore  and  sensitive;  he  was  ready  to  suspect 
her  simplest  word  of  profound  purpose,  because  —  she 
was  her,  mother's  child. 

"  I  was  sure  you  did  not  like  it, "  she  said,  in  a  low 
voice,  constrained  to  blunder  into  speech,  the  silence 
was  so 'terrible. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Gershom 
bluntly.  "I  'm  only  half  a  captain  at  the  best.  I 
may  never  stand  on  the  lee  of  a  quarter-deck  again. 
And  here,  I  'm  at  home,  and  just  what  I  always  was, 
to  those  who  take  me  as  I  am.  I  'm  willing  enough 
to  give  titles,  but  I  don't  care  about  claiming  them, 
—  MissGair." 

"Why  will  you  always  take  me  wrong?  "  she  cried 
out,  in  a  tone  the  more  intense  because  it  was  kept 
under  from  other  hearing.  And  she  dashed  on  away 
from  him,  into  the  thickening  wood,  after  the  rest. 
There  were  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  she  caught  herself 
blindly  in  the  tangle  of  branches,  and  tore  away  her 
veil  impatiently,  leaving  a  bit  of  blue  barege  behind, 
upon  a  stem,  —  the  first  of  her  "  strings  and  stream 
ers." 

They  began  to  go  to  ribbons,  now,  as  Joanna  had 
said.  All  the  remainder  of  the  way  lay  through  the 
uncleared  forest,  matted  with  underbrush,  intricate 
with  interlacing  branches,  and  rough  with  abrupt  rocks 
and  ridges,  and  wild  obstructions  of  natural  wreck 
and  decay.  John  Blighe  guided  them.  There  was  a 
way  that  a  hunter  could  find,  though  there  seemed  no 
path.  Out  to  the  left,  if  they  had  wandered  away 
from  the  right  direction,  they  would  have  lost  them 
selves  among  frightful  chasms  and  precipices;  and 
beyond,  at  the  right,  there  was  wet  ground,  and  more 
impassible  jungle.  It  was  no  trifling  feat,  this  climb 
ing  of  Boar-back.  Ruth  Gibson's  sunbonnet  had  lost 
half  its  pretty  ruffling  from  the  edge,  and  it  hung 


354  THE  GAY  WORTHY  S. 

back  in  a  festoon  over  her  neck  behind.  Say's  veil 
was  presently  in  tatters,  and  she  put  the  fragments  in 
her  pocket ;  and  then  the  ribbon  of  her  hat  got  a  sud 
den  pull,  unfastening  the  bow,  and  floating  it  t)ff  be 
hind  her  like  a  pennant.  Skirts  were  trodden  on,  and 
came  out  at  the  gathers ;  and  there  was  more  than  one 
"barn-door"  rent.  But  all  this  was  nothing,  so  long 
as  they  got  to  the  top;  rather,  it  was  one  half  the 
frolic. 

And  in  another  half  hour  they  were  at  the  top ; 
upon  the  highest  point  of  land  for  fifty  miles  around ; 
the  bare  crest  of  the  mountain  rising  above  the  forest 
they  had  passed,  like  the  forehead  of  a  giant  above  his 
bearded  face.  Only  here  and  there,  like  a  stray  lock 
about  his  brow,  a  pine  or  a  birch  flung  out  its  spicy 
tassels  or  its  green  silky  rustle  of  new  leaves. 

Away  back  to  the  north  lay  untrodden  wilds,  — 
townships  that  had  nothing  but  a  name;  southward 
descended  lower  undulating  ranges,  with  bright  valley 
views  between ;  and  away  off  westwardly,  they  caught 
blue  glimpses  of  real  monarch-peaks. 

It  was  a  glory  to  have  climbed  for;  to  have  lost 
gauds  and  trappings,  and  to  have  mutilated  gay  dra 
peries  for. 

There  were  old  stumps  of  huge  pines  scattered 
about,  felled  or  burned  away,  no  one  knows  when; 
and  a  long,  fallen  log  crashed  in  among  a  little  group 
of  younger  growth.  They  found  rude,  comfortable 
resting-places  here  and  there,  choosing  for  themselves 
different  outlooks ;  and  for  a  while  there  was  but  little 
talk. 

They  were  tired;  they  were  also  entranced  with 
marvelous  beauty,  and  beguiled  with  many  thoughts 
that  might  not  readily  be  spoken. 

Fields  and  farms  and  houses;  where  their  homes 
were,  looked  so  little  and  so  lost  away  down  there. 


UP  BOAR-BACK.  355 

The  rounds  their  lives  ran  in  seemed  so  petty  in  their 
measure.  The  river  came  down  —  they  could  trace 
it  all  the  way  —  from  the  far,  northwesterly  gap 
through  the  hills,  and  had  so  many  like  homes  dotted 
upon  its  borders,  and  yet  such  wild,  broad  spaces  be 
tween  !  The  haunts  of  the  fox  and  the  squirrel  looked 
so  much  grander  than  the  small  circuits  men  could  re 
claim  and  subdue  unto  their  needs!  The  world  was 
large ;  it  was  an  edge  here  like  the  margin  of  the  great 
sea;  and  one  could  discern  more  in  the  mighty  off- 
sweep. 

And  the  wonderful  light  that  came  pouring  and 
surging  down  over  all ;  on  the  evil  and  on  the  good ; 
on  the  wilderness  and  on  the  town!  How  it  gathered 
and  rolled  in  golden  mists  through  the  gorges,  and  lay 
in  purple  radiance  on  the  high,  far  crests,  and  left 
deep,  dark-blue  glooms  of  shadow  in  contrast  on  the 
eastward  slopes  and  underneath ! 

They  sat  here  and  there,  taking  it  in  according  to 
what  each  severally  had ;  as  the  Scripture  sayeth,  —  and 
Life  sayeth,  evermore. 

Joanna  Gayworthy  saw  more,  felt  more,  to-day, 
than  she  had  done  here  eight  years  ago. 

She  drew  herself  apart  a  little  from  the  others,  just 
under  the  eastern  brow  of  the  great  crown;  sitting  on 
the  crisp,  mossy  sod,  leaning  back  into  a  spicy  cedar- 
bush,  that  held  her  comfortably,  with  thick,  sidewise- 
spreading  arms. 

There  came  a  hush  over  life  and  soul,  a  deep  rest ; 
a  feeling  of  good  and  promise  in  all  things,  —  in  all 
living. 

She  could  discern  afar  down  the  little  apex  of  Peak 
Hill,  and  the  dot  of  soft,  light  color  beside  its  base, 
that  was  her  home.  She  knew  just  where  beyond,  out 
of  sight,  lay  the  red  buildings  of  that  other  farm, 
close  by.  In  that  little  space  lay  the  whole  scene  and 


356  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

story  of  her  life.  Of  hers  and  of  another  that  had 
blessed  and  helped  and  taught  her,  and  lifted  her  up 
to  a  higher,  though  unspoken  faith,  by  its  calm  stead 
fastness  and  pure  fidelity ;  that  had  done  all  this,  though 
it  had  not  fulfilled  the  dream  of  a  far-past  youth. 
There  had  been  the  "comfortable  friendliness;"  ay, 
there  had  been  greatly  more !  And  it  had  all  been 
borne  and  lost,  gained  and  gathered,  enacted  and  be 
holden,  there, — in  that  hand's-breadth  of  the  great 
landscape,  —  that  minutest  point  on  God's  vast  earth, 
so  full  of  life,  of  human  experience,  of  grief,  and  loss, 
and  joy,  and  growth! 

It  was  as  if  she  were  lifted  up  and  separated  from 
it,  like  a  soul  forever  risen;  measuring  her  little  past 
against  the  wide  sweep  of  that  eternal  Present  that 
holds  all.  And  the  peace,  the  infinite  hope  of  it, 
overspread  her,  and  made  her  strong  and  glad.  The 
mountain-joy  swelled  within  her.  She  forgot  how  lit 
tle  distant  was  the  young,  gay.  heedless  presence;  she 
forgot  her  very  self;  and  the  spirit  of  the  old  hymn 
possessed  her,  and  its  grand,  prophetic  lines  breathed 
themselves  impulsively  from  her  lips  in  the  clear,  stir 
ring  cadences  of  long-familiar  "Emmons." 

"  O'er  mountain  tops,  the  mount  of  God 

In  latter  days  shall  rise, 
Above  the  summits  of  the  hills, 
And  draw  the  wondering  eyes." 

With  the  third  line  a  broad,  rich  tenor  joined. 

From  the  rock  above  her  came  the  voice,  but  she 
did  not  turn,  only  kept  on,  her  tones  swelling  fuller, 
stronger ;  growing  glorious  as  with  an  inspiration ;  and 
they  sang  the  whole  hymn  through  before  either  singer 
moved.  Then  Gabriel  Hartshorne  came  down  and  sat 
upon  the  moss  beside  Joanna. 

"You  struck  it  first,  but  it  had  been  working  in 
me,"  he  said.  "If  you  had  not  burst  out,  I  should. 
This  is  a  gallery  to  sing  it  in!  " 


UP  BOAR-BACK.  357 

Joanna  did  not  answer,  and  for  a  minute  Gabriel 
said  nothing  more.  Old  associations  stirred  in  both. 
How  could  it  but  be  so  ?  You  cannot  do  the  merest 
thing,  you  cannot  turn  the  corner  of  a  street,  you  can 
not  hang  your  hat  upon  a  peg  where  you  have  hung  it 
once,  you  cannot,  if  you  are  a  woman,  turn  a  hem  or 
fit  a  difficult  corner  as  you  sew,  or  pin  a  bow  of  ribbon, 
but  you  call  up  some  mood,  some  circumstance  of  the 
past,  however  faintly,  however  unrecognized  at  the  in 
stant,  that  has  been  coincident,  once,  with  the  self 
same  triviality.  Do  you  wish  to  reproduce  another's 
by-gone  mood?  There  is  no  surer  art  whereby  to 
accomplish  it,  than  to  reproduce  the  little  outward 
circumstance,  if  you  can,  which  witnessed  it  before; 
which  stamped  itself  twin  with  it,  in  the  photograph 
of  memory,  that  is  always  busy,  that  misses  nothing, 
that  works  ever  with  a  weird  purpose,  by  a  hidden, 
wondrous  law. 

"  Do  you  know  how  changed  you  are  in  some  things, 
Joanna  ?  " 

There  was  no  need  to  say  since  when;  the  same  old 
time  was  in  the  thoughts  of  both. 

"Years  change  most  people,"  she  answered,  with  a 
difficulty.  And  then,  with  an  attempt  at  the  old  light 
ness,  she  added,  "I 've  grown  fat  and  old.  I  know 
that." 

"  'T  is  n't  that.  You're  grown  womanly,  but  not 
old.  It 's  no  compliment;  you  know  it.  But  I  meant 
something  else.  Twelve  years  ago,  you  were  like  Sky- 
lie,  there." 

"Twelve  years  ago,  I  was" — a  fool,  was  on  her 
lips  to  say,  but  she  suppressed  it.  It  might  mean  too 
much,  too  definitely. 

"I  remember  what  my  mother  used  to  say  of  you." 

"What  was  that?"  Joanna  asked  the  question 
quickly,  almost  sharply.  Had  his  mother  disapproved 


358  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

her,  in  her  flippancy  and  recklessness  ?  Had  this  had 
aught  to  do  with  the  ending  of  that  old  story,  twelve 
years  ago  ? 

"She  said  you  would  take  such  a  lot  of  sobering 
down." 

"I've  had  it." 

"I  suppose  we  've  all  had  just  what  was  good  for 
us." 

He  spoke  it  with  a  simple,  reverent  faith ;  a  sub 
mission  that  had  long  ago  grown  into  a  large  content. 
It  brought  back  Joanna's  mood  of  a  few  minutes  since, 
that  had  been  momentarily  broken. 

"I  know  you  believe  that.  It  is  easy  to  see,"  she 
said,  with  a  tone  of  feeling.  "And  so  do  I.  Look 
ing  out  here  made  me  think  "  —  Here  she  paused. 
Joanna  Gayworthy  never  had  told  her  inmost  thoughts ; 
she  could  not  now. 

Gabriel  waited  for  the  space  of  a  minute.  No  more 
came.  Then  he  said,  gently,  "We  are  old  friends, 
now,  Joanna." 

"Yes,  old  friends,"  she  answered,  looking  up  with 
a  bright,  clear,  sudden  smile,  and  a  content  in  her 
face  that  was  like  his  own.  The  words  expressed  the 
utmost  of  her  hope ;  the  utmost  that  had  been  her  hope, 
for  years.  It  was  very  dear  to  her,  this  utterance  of 
it,  by  Gabriel ;  very  dear  and  pleasant,  also,  his  call 
ing  her  by  the  old  infrequent  name. 

"Friends  tell  each  other  thoughts." 

"Yes,  some  thoughts,"  said  the  woman. 

"Why  not  these  mountain  thoughts?  " 

"I  never  can  talk  'sanctified.'  Mountain  thoughts 
are  high  thoughts.  I  don't  wonder"  —  They  stopped 
her  again,  these  thoughts  that  could  not  be  uttered. 

"I  don't  wonder,"  said  Gabriel,  taking  up  the  word, 
and  going  on  quietly  as  if  it  were  not  a  strange,  but 
a  certain  and  natural  thing,  that  their  two  thoughts 


UP  BOAR-BACK.  359 

should  be  the  same,  "that  the  Lord  went  up  into  the 
mountains  to  preach,  or  to  pray,  or  to  be  transfig 
ured." 

"You  've  said  it.      Now  say  the  rest  for  me." 

"It 's  all  said,  plain  enough,  before  us.  Down 
there, "  —  and  he  reached  his  hand  out  toward  the  little 
farm-buildings  under  the  Peak,  —  "down  there,  are  our 
lives ;  what  they  have  been,  so  far ;  shut  in  there. 
Then,  there  is  all  the  rest  of  it ;  room  for  so  much !  " 
The  lifted  hand  swept  round,  indicating  the  whole 
grand  circuit  of  hill  and  vale,  under  the  wide  horizon, 
whereon  new  glories  played,  in  shifting  lights  and 
colors,  with  each  passing  cloud,  each  hand's-breadth 
sinking  of  the  westering  sun. 

A  sudden  instinct  of  dread  came  over  Joanna.  A 
terror,  all  at  once,  of  the  breadth  of  possibility. 

"There  is  too  much  room!  "  she  cried,  putting  her 
hands  over  her  eyes.  "I  don't  like  to  look  at  it.  I 
have  just  learned  to  bear  life  as  it  is;  in  just  that  lit 
tle  spot.  It  mustn't  move  nor  change!  " 

"What  may  change,  must.  There  are  things  that 
cannot  change." 

In  the  little  pause  between  Joanna's  words  and 
Gabriel's  answer  his  thought  had  flashed  to  and  fro, 
lighting  up  sharp  points  in  the  long  history  of  years. 
His  mother,  and  the  change  that  took  her  from  their 
round  of  outward  life,  yet  left  the  great  love  that 
made  that  life  all  full  of  her  dear  presence,  even  yet. 
The  young  desire,  the  hope  that  had  been  wrenched 
away,  the  work  that  had  been  given  him  in  its  stead, 
the  years  of  labor  and  of  waiting,  and  the  unchanging 
force,  that  held  him  steadfast  through  it  all,  true  to 
his  vow,  —  true,  no  less  to  the  old,  fervent  passion, 
though  it  had  calmed  into  pure,  tender  friendship,  that 
daily  he  thanked  God  for,  —  all  these  were  touched 
by  the  gleam  that  kindled  at  those  words  of  hers ;  and 
from  the  gathered  feeling  of  it  all,  he  spoke. 


360  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

"There  are  things  that  cannot  change." 

If  Joann     had  looked  up  into  his  face,  she  would 

ton  of  fee,  such  as  can  be  between  two  souls  only, 

^""wtS  happens,  Gabriel,  we  are  old  friends,  in 
,1P™  Sh7ques?ioned  with  an  earnestness,  an  eager- 
±s,  as  ifsh!  dreaded  something,  she  knew  not  what, 

^toUhe*  hand  and  held  it  iu  a  strong  grasp  that 

answered  her.  „ 

"Old  friends.     Dear  friends,  Joanna. 
A  loud  call  interrupted  them.     A  call 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

OVER   EAST    SPUR. 

DOWN  to  the  northward  the  great  mountain  mass 
precipitated  its  descent,  in  steep  banks  and  sheer  es 
carpments,  toward  a  wild  ravine.  They  were  like 
terraces ;  a  bank,  a  precipice,  a  flat  of  sward,  or  a  table- 
rock;  another  cliff,  another  landing;  each  successive 
pitch  a  deeper  fall;  with  shelving  ridges  that  wound 
and  sloped,  eastward  and  westward,  merging  each 
ledge  with  the  next,  all  down  the  giant  shoulders  of 
the  hill. 

From  under  the  first  cliff,  the  cry  came.  No  cry  of 
pain  or  even  of  fear.  Only  a  call.  Joanna's  name, 
in  Say's  voice. 

A  few  rods  over  on  the  westward  slope  the  greater 
number  of  the  young  party  had  settled  themselves  in 
closely  neighboring  groups.  Say  had  been  with  them, 
and  Joanna  had  supposed  her  with  them  still.  They, 
perhaps,  when  she  had  risen  and  gone  away,  some  fif 
teen  minutes  since,  had  thought  her  with  Joanna. 

There  had  been  some  merry,  disputing  claim  of  best 
places  and  outlooks. 

"It  would  be  just  perfect  here,"  cried  Skylie,  out 
from  a  nook  of  pines,  "only  that  impertinent  birch- 
tree  has  grown  up  in  the  way.  There  's  nothing  else 
between  me  and  Red  Cap." 

"It 's  the  only  thing  that  breaks  the  whole  western 
view,"  said  Ruth  Gibson.  "I've  been  wishing  it 
away  ever  since  I  got  here." 

"Hasn't  anybody  got  a  hatchet  in  his  pocket?" 
asked  Skylie  impatiently. 


3G2  THE  GAYWOBTHYS. 

"I've  got  a  jack-knife,"  said  Gershom  Vorse 
quietly. 

"Just  whittle  me  down  that  tree,  then,  please." 

The  sailor,  used  to  "short  orders,"  went  aloft, 
without  ado.  In  an  instant  he  was  in  the  top  of  the 
swaying  birch;  a  tree  of  twenty-five  feet  height,  per 
haps,  with  a  girth  of  more  than  two  hands'  span. 

He  began  to  whittle  down. 

The  feathery  crown  of  upper  twigs  fell,  rustling,  to 
the  ground.  Then  he  lowered  himself  a  little,  and 
struck  in  a  new  place.  A  true  branch  was  severed  and 
crashed  lightly  among  the  others,  underneath.  Drop 
ping  a  little,  hands  and  feet,  he  worked  away.  Two, 
three,  four  limbs,  each  of  successive  larger  bole,  suc 
cumbed  in  turn. 

It  grew  exciting.  Would  he  really  whittle  down 
the  tree  ?  The  party  watched,  and  laughed,  and  cried 
out  in  applause. 

Say  got  up,  and  walked  away. 

Why  should  Skylie  Purcell  order  him  up  and  down, 
so  ?  Why  should  he  obey  ? 

Had  they  been  brother  and  sister,  with  none  nearer, 
in  old  childish  years  ?  Had  he  scolded  and  comforted, 
and  laughed  at  and  cheered  her,  away  back  in  that 
time  of  the  dear  summer  journeys  and  stays  in  Hil- 
bury  ?  Had  she  been  afraid  of  his  censure,  and  hon 
ored  his  honest  bluntness,  and  brought  all  questions 
instinctively  to  the  secret  test  of  what  Gershom  would 
say,  how  he  would  judge  ?  Had  she  waited  these  five 
years  for  her  brother  to  come  back  to  her,  longing  for 
him  with  a  great,  lonely,  childish  longing,  all  the 
time  ?  Having  no  other  love  to  fill  her  want,  like  the 
love  she  had  missed  when  her  old  playfellow  suddenly 
went  forth  into  manhood  and  the  world,  leaving  her 
"to  be  a  little  girl  ever  so  many  years  longer?  " 

What  claim  had  Skylie  Purcell  like  this  lifelong 
claim  of  hers  ? 


OVER  EAST  SPUR.  363 

Why  should  Gershom  turn  from  her,  his  little  Say, 
scorning  her  least  word  of  sympathy  and  pride,  and  let 
this  strange  girl  play  her  freaks  with  him  ? 

She  did  not  understand  her  own  jealousy,  that  was 
growing  sharper  than  a  sister's.  She  only  could  not 
bear  it,  and  she  turned  away. 

She  walked  up  the  mountain  crest ;  where  it  heaved 
itself  into  that  slow,  clumsy  outline  whence  it  had  its 
name ;  beyond  which,  northward,  plunged  the  steeps, 
one  behind  another,  into  the  wilderness.  She  went 
down  a  little,  over  the  topmost  height,  where  the  first 
rapid  slope  tended  downward,  but  had  not  yet  become 
precipitous.  She  descended  till  the  mountain  summit 
hid  her  from  sight;  till  she  was  all  alone;  till  she 
paused  at  the  very  brink  of  the  perpendicular  decliv 
ity,  where  another  step  would  be  twenty  feet  straight 
down  a  face  of  granite. 

She  sat  there  on  the  verge ;  her  feet  over  the  cliff, 
resting  on  a  projection  of  the  stone  below.  She 
looked  into  the  top  of  a  tall,  strong  birch  that  grew 
upon  the  level  underneath,  and  tossed  its  crown,  quiver 
ing  and  whispering  with  every  breath,  close  at  her  side. 
All  alone,  rooted  in  the  rocks ;  a  hard,  stern  living ; 
reaching  up  toward  the  far,  soft  blue,  and  trembling 
ever,  with  its  sensitive  pulsations,  against  the  granite. 
There  was  human  life  like  this ;  she  had  a  dread  that 
she  must  live  it.  She  sat  there  thinking,  listening, 
till  the  tears  stood  in  her  eyes ;  till  the  tree-whispers 
sounded  like  a  syllabled  sympathy ;  till,  impelled  with 
a  tender  pitifulness  that  was  secretly  for  her  own  sad 
ness,  she  reached  out  her  hands  caressingly  to  the 
green,  swaying  boughs,  that  came  lifting  and  dropping 
against  her  knees. 

Suddenly  she  heard  her  name  from  above.  She  was 
missed. 

The  whittling  down  of  the   tree   had  been  accom- 


364  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

plished.  There  stood,  now,  only  a  bare,  jagged  pole, 
making  a  line  against  the  western  sky  and  the  breast 
of  Red  Cap  purpling  in  shadow,  to  show  where  a  tree 
had  been,  shutting  out  miles  of  hill  and  heaven. 

There  had  been  a  shout  of  triumph ;  Say  had  not 
heeded ;  she  had  only  folded  more  tenderly  the  young 
leaves  between  her  palms,  and  looked  through  eyes 
suddenly  dimmer  with  that  self-pity,  over  upon  the 
black  surge  of  the  wilderness. 

Then  they,  above,  turning  one  to  another,  had  found 
that  she  was  gone,  —  gone  quite  away,  and  out  of 
sight;  and  somebody  had  called  her  by  her  name. 

It  startled  her.  She  was  in  no  mood  to  go  back, 
just  yet,  or  to  be  found ;  she  had  an  impulse  to  spring 
up  and  hide  herself  away  again.  Still  holding  the 
birch  in  her  right  hand,  she  placed  her  left  beside  her 
on  the  rock  to  raise  herself  again  upon  it. 

A  strange  thing  happened.  She  threw  her  weight, 
for  an  instant,  inadvertently,  upon  her  right  foot,  rest 
ing  as  it  did  upon  a  shelf  below.  The  shelf,  —  a  thin 
shard  of  stone  held  edgewise  in  a  crevice  —  crumbled 
from  its  loose  lodgment  and  gave  way.  With  the 
quick  instinct  of  terror,  she  threw  up,  also,  her  other 
hand,  clutching  the  birch-bole  desperately  with  both. 
The  lithe  tree  bent  with  her ;  she  felt  in  a  flash  how  it 
would  be;  she  had  "swung  birches"  before,  many  a 
time,  in  sport ;  she  was  tossed  down  fifteen  feet,  and 
dropped,  —  dropped  upon  the  thick  moss  and  forest 
mould  that  bedded  the  broad  platform  below.  She 
was  safe;  but  the  bough  sprang  back  again,  and  she 
was  left  there.  There  was  no  way  of  reascending. 

She  lay  where  she  had  fallen  a  minute,  trembling; 
she  had  not  gotten  over  the  convulsion  of  her  momen 
tary  horror.  Then  she  looked  around,  and  the  fact  of 
her  situation  revealed  itself. 

Right  and  left  were  craggy,  shelving  rocks ;   above, 


OVER  EAST  SPUR.  365 

the  sheer  ascent  from  whose  height  she  had  come  down, 
as  by  a  miracle.  The  only  foothold,  either  way,  was 
downward  still.  One  might,  if  one  dared,  pass  out 
there,  to  the  east,  upon  the  narrow  ledge  to  which  this 
platform  dwindled,  where  the  upper  cliff  crowded  out 
upon  it;  but  whither?  She  was  afraid,  astonished. 
She  was  perplexed,  and  she  was  ashamed.  Astonished 
and  affrighted  at  this  position  in  which,  so  strangely  in 
a  moment,  she  had  placed  herself.  Ashamed  to  cry 
out  and  make  known  how  she  had  come  there. 

Meanwhile,  the  call  for  her  had  not  been  immedi 
ately  repeated.  She  heard  faintly  a  laugh.  They 
were  at  some  new  jest. 

She  moved  along  to  the  eastward  side  of  the  hill, 
around  a  huge  abutment  of  the  granite,  leaving  the 
saunds  behind,  and  coming  close  under  the  point  where 
she  knew  Joanna  had  been.  Then  she  shouted  in  a 
clear,  confident,  yet  appealing  tone,  her  name.  She 
had  thought  for  that.  If  her  cry  reached  them  from 
this  strange  spot  with  an  accent  of  distress  or  of  alarm, 
they  would  be  suddenly  and  terribly  frightened  for  her. 
She  wished  to  save  them  this.  Above  all,  she  wished, 
if  possible,  to  avert  a  general  commotion. 

Gabriel  and  Joanna  hastened  up  over  the  ridge. 
They  came  down  cautiously  to  the  verge  of  the  cliff 
upon  that  side,  and  beheld  below,  sitting  on  a  frag 
ment  of  rock,  half  turned  away  from  them,  awaiting 
some  answer  to  her  call,  the  "child,"  Sarah  Gair. 

"  Say !  How  on  earth  did  you  ever  get  there  ?  " 
cried  Joanna  in  dismay. 

"  Swung  down  on  a  birch,  Auntie !  "  she  cried  back, 
looking  up  half  laughing;  but  her  face  was  pale. 

"What  nonsense,  child!  On  purpose?  Don't  tell 
me  that !  " 

"No;  my  foot  slipped,  and  I  tumbled  into  it.  Ho\v 
shall  I  get  up  again  ?  " 


366  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

"That's  the  thing!  "  said  Joanna,  turning  to  Ga 
briel,  with  the  question  in  her  face. 

"It's  a  mile  around,  by  any  safe  path,"  said  Ga 
briel.  "Where's  the  birch?" 

"Around  there,  by  the  very  top.  Down  behind  the 
old  log.  But  it  mightn't  bear  again,"  she  cried  with 
a  sudden  terror,  as  she  saw  them  turn  and  walk  away 
upward,  rapidly,  toward  the  crest. 

Now,  they  would  all  come.  Now,  they  would  all 
shout,  and  wonder,  and  ask  questions.  Now,  Skylie 
would  laugh,  and  Gershom  —  well,  she  would  stay 
here,  where  she  was.  So  she  sat  down  on  her  stone 
again. 

Up  there,  above,  they  found  the  birch,  and  the 
whole  party  got  together,  before  anybody  could  make 
a  mind  up  what  to  do. 

The  breeze  had  died  away;  there  was  no  swaying 
of  the  bough,  now,  toward  the  cliff;  and  the  strain 
that  had  bent  the  slender  bole  down  nearly  double 
had  not  left  it  quite  erect  as  it  had  been  before.  It 
swerved  a  little,  outward  from  the  rock. 

Gabriel  moved  on  a  few  paces,  reconnoitring  the 
crags  upon  the  left;  if  haply  any  descent  there  might 
be  possible. 

John  Blighe  looked  eager,  nervous;  measuring  the 
height,  scanning  the  birch  with  doubtful,  impatient 
eyes.  Fifty  pounds  difference  in  weight  might  make 
a  different  jump  of  it. 

"I  know  the  way,"  he  said.  "Down  under  the 
Rump,  over  the  East  Spur  by  the  old  logging  road. 
But  that, "  —  glancing  into  the  crown  of  the  light  tree 
that  trembled  just  beyond  their  reach,  —  "why,  it's 
a  thing  for  a  bird  to  do !  " 

"Or  a  girl,  or  a  very  brave,  quick-witted  man," 
said  Skylie  Purcell,  with  a  sharp  little  sarcasm  in  her 
tone. 


OVER  EAST  SPUE.  367 

For  as  they  spoke,  the  thing  was  done. 

The  sailor,  Gershom  Vorse,  used  to  holding  on  with 
his  eyelids,  lowered  himself  suddenly  down  the  face  of 
the  cliff,  grasping  its  rough  edge  with  his  hands,  and 
finding  a  seam  to  brace  one  foot  in,  threw  out  the 
other,  catching  so,  and  bringing  toward  him  the  yield 
ing  stem,  whereon  he  flung  himself  with  all  his  limbs, 
and  clung  as  only  a  sailor  could.  Down  it  danced 
with  him  through  the  air,  and  dropped  him  safely. 
John  Blighe  looked  vacant,  as  if  somebody  had  plucked 
a  purpose  from  him  before  he  quite  knew  what  it  was, 
that  took  the  breath  out  with  it,  and  left  him  gasping. 

Gershom  looked  up  and  spoke  quietly,  as  if  nothing 
out  of  the  premeditated  course  had  happened. 

"We  shall  come  out  on  East  Spur  in  less  than  a 
half  an  hour.  You  can  see  us  if  you  wait,  and  after 
that  it 's  straight  sailing.  You  need  have  no  con 
cern.  " 

"You  '11  go  down  by  the  logging  road,  then?  "  said 
Gabriel. 

"Yes,  that  is  best;  it 's  a  bad  way  round  to  the 
south  side  again,  and  you  'd  ought  to  be  gone  long 
before  we  could  meet  you.  Don't  wait  longer  than 
just  to  see  us  safe  out  on  the  Spur." 

"Where  will  they  come  out  at  last?  "  asked  Joanna 
of  John  Blighe. 

"Depends  on  whether  he  really  knows  the  way," 
replied  that  gentleman,  in  a  somewhat  sulky  tone. 
"If  he  has  good  luck,  and  they  don't  break  their 
necks,  they  '11  strike  the  Deepwater  road  somewhere 
over  behind  Hoogs's." 

"Take  Say  home  with  you  to  Wealthy's,"  called 
Joanna  to  Gershom. 

He  nodded,  and  moved  on  along  the  foot  of  the  cliff, 
to  find  her.  He  had  known  just  what  would  be  to  be 
done  before  a  word  had  been  said.  He  had  scaled 


368  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

these  ledges  as  a  boy,  years  ago;  and  the  old  logging 
road  down  East  Spur  was  no  less  familiar  to  him  than 
to  John  Blighe.  He  knew  that  Say  could  never  walk 
round  the  great  mountain  foot,  by  the  winding  Deep- 
water  road,  to  the  point  whence  the  party  had  com 
menced  their  climb  that  afternoon;  it  would  be  quite 
enough  for  her  if  she  could  accomplish  the  long,  hard, 
scrambling  descent  of  East  Spur ;  and  if  anybody  were 
to  drive  round  to  meet  them,  there  was  no  certain 
point  within  half  a  mile,  at  best,  at  which  to  expect 
them ;  for  the  logging  road  ended  abruptly  far  away 
in  rough  pastures,  where  they  must  choose  a  track  out 
as  best  they  could  to  a  traveled  way.  A  short  and 
smooth  cut  over  a  few  cleared  fields  again,  after  cross 
ing  the  Deepwater  road,  would  take  them  to  the  dairy 
farm. 

"We'll  go  round  there  and  say  they 're  coming," 
said  Skylie  Purcell  to  Joanna,  "  or,  between  you,  they 
might  be  out  all  night,  and  nobody  the  wiser." 

"I'm  going  there  myself,"  said  Joanna  quietly. 
"I  '11  go  with  you,  if  you  '11  make  room,  since  it 's 
on  your  way." 

"  I  can  take  you  round, "  said  Gabriel. 

"  Thank  you ;  but  it  will  be  late,  and  Rebecca  will 
be  getting  anxious.  I  'd  rather  you  'd  go  home  and 
explain  to  her,  if  you  '11  be  so  kind." 

Gabriel  would  be  kind.  There  were  no  jealousies 
and  misconstructions  of  young,  hasty  spirits  between 
these  two  now.  They  were  old,  sure  friends.  They 
would  do  each  other  best  service,  always,  whether  it 
were  momentary  pleasure,  or  no.  Gabriel  would  go 
home  and  tell  Rebecca,  and  Joanna  and  Say  would  be 
kept  at  the  dairy  farm  till  morning. 

Ger shorn  knew  how  it  would  be.  Was  there  a  lit 
tle  thrill  of  joy  for  him  in  it,  spite  of  his  stern  will 
not  to  be  pleased,  —  to  let  Say  alone,  and  not  to  care 


OVER  EAST  SPUE.  369 

for  her,  — Jane  Gair's  child?  He  did  not  ask  himself 
what  shade  of  other  impulse  mingled  with  his  instinc 
tive  sailor  gallantry  and  readiness  when  there  was  a 
thing  to  be  done  that  called  for  cool  nerve  and  trained 
muscle;  what  eagerness  it  was  that  he  felt,  as  he 
sprang  past  John  Blighe,  and  cast  himself  over  the 
cliff,  clinging  by  his  finger- tips.  Ah,  the  honestest 
of  us  have  the  little  thoughts  in  the  fine  soul-type, 
that  we  put  by  and  overlay  with  a  sort  we  are  more 
willing  to  look  at. 

"He  should  have  Say  all  to  himself,  this  little 
while,  without  being  able  to  help  it." 

Gershom  Vorse  hardly  knew  that  he  thought  this ; 
yet  some  secret,  detected  content  made  him  suddenly 
angry  with  himself,  as  he  strode  on,  around  the  crag, 
and  came  upon  her,  sitting  there,  turned  away,  half 
ashamed,  and  waiting.  It  threw  him  back  into  his 
reserve  again. 

Say  thought  it  was  Gabriel  coming.  Round  there, 
behind  the  beetling  rock,  the  sounds  of  their  voices 
had  come  to  her  with  a  confused  perception  of  direc 
tion.  She  caught  some  of  their  words;  she  heard 
Gabriel  speak,  and  Gershom;  she  heard  them  all  talk 
together,  scarcely  distinguishing  who  might  be  above, 
and  who  below;  and  then  came  the  man's  step,  strid 
ing  and  springing,  and  she  knew  somebody  had  come 
to  take  care  of  her.  When  he  came  close,  she  turned 
round.  She  started  up. 

"You!" 

"Why  not?" 

"I  thought  it  was  Mr.  Hartshorne."  After  a  little 
pause,  —  "It  was  very  silly  and  careless  of  me.  I 
don't  know  how  I  did  it.  And  you  are  very  kind  to 
come  for  me." 

All  her  little  resentment  was  gone.  She  was 
prompt  to  be  grateful,  poor  child.  A  small  kindness 


370  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

touched  her  always.  Even  in  what  seemed  her  pleas 
ant  life,  she  had  been  used  to  snubs,  and  ready  con 
sideration  took  her  by  surprise.  To  be  of  consequence, 
to  be  attended  to,  this  was  what  she  had  not  learned 
to  take  for  granted  even  in  Hilbury.  Her  voice  trem 
bled,  even,  as  she  thanked  him  so. 

It  seemed  to  him  beyond  the  occasion.  There  was 
nothing  to  make  a  fuss  about. 

"You  must  be  got  home  somehow,  of  course."  He 
was  hard  and  matter-of-fact  again.  She  crushed  her 
gratitude  back,  and  got  up  and  wrapped  her  shawl 
about  her,  and  was  ready  to  move  on. 

The  wind,  that  had  been  southerly  all  the  early  day, 
had  come  round  to  the  eastward  in  the  afternoon ;  and 
the  air,  cool  always  on  these  heights,  was  keen  upon 
this  shaded  side  of  the  mountain.  Say  had  grown 
chilly  as  she  had  sat  there  on  the  cliff  behind  the  crest, 
out  of  the  sunshine.  She  felt  the  cold  afresh  now, 
coming  out  of  the  shelter  of  the  rock  and  facing  the 
breeze,  as  she  followed  Gershom  on  along  the  ledge, 
where  it  narrowed  rapidly  to  a  perilous  pass. 

He  turned  to  take  her  hand  and  help  her  round  a 
point  of  rocks  where  the  foothold  was  smallest.  Be 
yond,  it  broadened  again  to  safer  space.  Here  he 
stopped  and  began  to  pull  off  the  loose,  rough  jacket 
that  he  wore  above  his  sailor  shirt. 

"You  are  cold,"  said  he.  "You  'd  better  put  this 
on." 

The  words  and  the  act  were  kind,  but  the  tone  was 
matter-of-fact  as  ever. 

"  I  can  freeze  as  well  as  you, "  she  said  shortly ; 
and  made  as  if  she  would  pass  him  to  go  forward. 
He,  on  his  part,  replied  nothing  to  that,  but  turned 
and  resumed  his  leading  of  the  way. 

So  they  went  on,  in  their  moods,  these  two  strange, 
young  creatures,  each  holding  such  quick,  magnetic 


OVER  EAST  SPUR.  371 

power  over  the  other,  working  as  yet,  it  seemed,  only 
for  repulsion. 

It  was  not  in  Say's  nature  to  be  haughty;  to  cast 
back  scorn  for  scorn.  She  could  flame  out  for  an  in 
stant,  with  a  woman's  proud  resentment,  but  a  word 
would  bring  her  back  again  to  the  sweetness  of  a  child. 
And  Gershom  was  not  precisely  scornful,  either;  he 
was  only  cold  and  rational ;  doing  things  for  a  reason, 
by  no  means  for  a  sentiment.  So  she  thought  of  him ; 
so  he,  too,  thought,  at  present,  of  himself. 

There  was  a  wild  delight  of  daring  in  the  treading 
of  this  path  they  had  to  follow.  To  Gershom  not  so 
much,  perhaps;  he  had  been  used  to  the  hills  and 
ledges  from  a  child;  to  dizzy  spars  and  slender  ropes 
for  years  of  hazardous  life.  But  Say's  cheek  tingled 
and  her  eye  glowed  as,  with  her  shawl  tied  tightly 
around  her  waist,  and  her  dress  knotted  up  behind, 
away  from  her  feet,  in  a  great,  careless  knob,  she 
sprung,  like  a  bird,  from  perch  to  perch  along  the 
jagged  and  interrupted  way.  The  little  feet  seemed 
made  for  dainty  poising  on  the  narrow  shelves,  and  she 
held  herself  with  sure  and  delicate  balance,  as  if  it 
were  but  a  dance,  on  airy  heights  where  an  instant's 
uncertainty  or  giddiness  might  have  been  her  death. 
She  never  thought  of  being  afraid.  Gershom  could 
not  help  in  his  heart  a  wondering  admiration  of  the 
bright,  brave  young  thing.  He  watched  carefully  for 
her  safety.  He  reached  a  ready  hand  whenever  it  was 
needed  for  an  instant.  He  was  cool  and  heedful;  it 
was  his  business  to  see  her  safe.  But  he  did  it  as  a 
business ;  he  said  never  a  word  for  a  long  while  after 
that  rejected  offer  of  the  jacket ;  he  let  no  gleam  come 
into  his  face  of  admiring  surprise  as  she  sped  lightly 
on,  never  pausing  or  daunted,  following  with  clean 
aplomb  wherever  he  himself  could  go. 

Without  him,  she  might  hardly  have  been  nerved  to 


372  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

such  intrepidity ;  it  is  hard  to  tell  what  goes  to  make 
a  mood ;  she  felt  safe,  having  him ;  she  felt  proud,  he 
looking  on ;  excited  to  do  her  best ;  to  be  as  cool  as 
he ;  goaded  by  his  indifference  to  something  that  was 
no  longer  anger,  but  had  a  high  touch,  —  was  a  little 
superb.  Sarah  Gair  had  never  asserted  herself  so 
completely  in  his  presence ;  she  had  never  been  so  near 
seizing  supremacy. 

They  came  down  at  last,  safely,  to  the  second  land 
ing.  They  glanced  back,  upward,  to  the  way  they  had 
threaded.  It  looked  almost  like  bare  cliff  again ;  seen 
from  hence,  one  could  hardly  fancy  there  could  be  any 
path.  The  great  mountain  pile  towered  high  above 
them,  now ;  below,  a  yet  more  enormous  mass  stretched 
itself  out  and  clothed  itself  with  forest.  It  was  utter 
solitude.  Dense  shadow  heaped  itself,  like  a  thing  to 
be  felt ;  cold,  black  glooms  lay  impenetrable  about 
them.  The  whole  great  body  of  the  mighty  hill  was 
between  them  and  the  presence  of  their  friends ;  no 
voice  could  reach  them ;  no  ear  could  catch  a  cry. 
They  were  here  together ;  they  could  only  help  each 
other. 

There  are  moments  in  life  when  people  stand  so. 
When  they  look  back  on  the  path,  broken  and  perilous, 
that  they  have  traversed;  coldly,  perhaps,  and  in  es 
trangement,  yet  together;  when  they  can  no  longer 
return ;  when  they  can  make  no  long  pause ;  when  they 
must  help  and  cheer  each  other,  or  nothing  human  will. 
In  such  moments  hearts  come  closer. 

At  first  these  seemed  far  enough. 

"Are  you  tired?  " 

"No." 

This  was  all  they  said,  after  the  peril  and  the  long 
silence.  They  stood  a  little  apart,  arid  the  silence  of 
the  wilderness,  broken  only  by  this  pebble  of  sound, 
closed  up  again  around  them.  But  the  secret  influence 


OVEE  EAST  SPUE.  373 

of  the  place  was  working.  The  solitude  was  bringing 
them  nearer  in  spirit. 

There  came  a  crash  in  the  woods,  just  down  below 
them.  Some  forest  animal,  or  a  broken  branch.  Say 
started,  and  her  movement  brought  her  closer  to  Ger- 
shom's  side. 

"What  is  it?  "  she  whispered,  a  little  fearfully. 

"Nothing,"  said  Gershom,  "but  a  fox,  perhaps,  or 
a  falling  limb." 

Say  laughed.  "I  think  it  is  the  bears,  coming  to 
eat  up  the  naughty  children.  Don't  be  cross,  Ger 
shom." 

She  said  it  with  the  very  old  accent  of  their  childish 
days,  when  she  had  used  to  say  it  so  often. 

"I'm  not  cross,  Say.  Don't  be  silly."  His  old 
reply,  —  spoken  very  kindly,  now,  for  the  old  days 
came  back,  and  the  secret  present  charm  had  wrought. 

"We  had  better  go  on." 

Say  felt  the  sound  quiver  as  it  came  to  her  lips, 
saying  but  these  simple,  common-sensible  words,  with 
the  thrill  that  only  a  returning  kindness  in  Gershie 
had  ever  given  her ! 

Both  felt  it  would  not  do  to  linger.  Say  was  warm 
with  exercise,  and  she  must  not  stay  here  to  be  chilled. 
They  must  wait  for  no  reaction  of  body  or  of  spirit. 

So  they  went  on,  and  the  path  narrowed  again. 
Under  the  overhanging  rock,  they  passed  around,  still 
working  to  the  eastward  and  southward;  making 
through  the  rock  and  tangle  for  the  great  outlying 
shoulder  of  East  Spur. 

All  at  once  Gershom  paused,  appalled.  Had  he 
missed  his  way,  that  he  had  felt  so  sure  of  ?  Had  he 
taken  some  delusive  turn,  and  followed  a  wrong  shelv 
ing,  that  would  end  in  middle  air,  against  a  hopeless 
face  of  rock?  Or  had  there  been  a  break,  or  fall, 
here,  since  he  trod  the  path  before  ? 


374  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

They  had  come  suddenly  to  a  bend  where  they  could 
see  but  a  few  feet  in  advance ;  those  few  feet  a  mere 
lintel  against  a  precipice  that  reached  itself  up  and 
forward,  at  a  pitch  that  would  not  let  them  stand  up 
right. 

They  might,  though  at  great  peril,  crawl  around; 
he  had  come  to  feel  strong  faith  in  Say,  by  this  time ; 
but  what  lay  beyond  ?  If  there  should  be  no  way  to 
proceed,  might  they  be  able  to  turn  and  come  back? 

It  was  for  him  to  go  and  see. 

"  Stay  here,  Say, "  he  said ;  and  there  was  suddenly 
something  almost  tender  in  his  tone. 

Was  he  frightened  for  her?  Had  anything  gone 
wrong?  She  hardly  cared  at  that  moment,  since  he 
could  be  gentle  once  more. 

It  was  only  when  she  saw  him  stoop  to  hands  and 
feet,  and  pass,  carefully  creeping,  beyond  her  sight 
upon  the  dizzy  shelf  around  the  bend,  that  the  thought 
smote  her  of  why  he  did  it ;  of  what  might  happen  to 
him,  should  the  way  prove  a  false  leading.  She  saw 
it  suddenly,  now;  that  he  had  left  her  here  fo  test  a 
dreadful  danger  alone. 

She  crouched  down  upon  the  lichened  rock  whereon 
she  stood,  covering  her  eyes  with  her  hands ;  an  agony 
of  listening  in  her  ears ;  waiting  for  a  possible  sound 
of  horror.  She  refrained  from  the  call  of  expostula 
tion  that  had  risen  to  her  lips ;  she  must  not  shake,  by 
a  breath,  his  concentration  of  faculty  and  purpose ;  she 
nuist  wait,  and  let  him  alone. 

Two  —  three  —  minutes !  How  many  years  did 
they  seem  like  ? 

There  came  a  small  sound,  —  and  then  the  stillness 
again.  A  sound  of  a  stone,  falling,  rolling,  losing  it 
self,  she  could  not  tell  whether  in  distance  or  against 
seme  resting-place. 

The  instant's  silence  after  that  was  ghastly. 


OVER  EAST  SPUR.  375 

She  had  raised  her  head;  she  was  gazing  at  the 
farthest  angle,  behind  which  he  had  disappeared. 
She  scarcely  breathed ;  her  vision  was  almost  paralyzed 
by  its  own  intentness;  her  whole  being  was  gathered 
to  a  point,  in  fear  and  expectation;  then  she  saw  an 
arm  reached  into  sight,  —  a  hand  planted  —  fingers 
outward  —  upon  the  rocky  edge;  a  body  lifted,  so, 
sidewise,  the  feet  hanging  down  over  the  abyss,  and 
set,  again,  a  little  nearer.  So  he  came  back  over  a 
way  where  turning  had  been  impossible. 

"We  must  go  down  lower,  Say;  half-way  to  the 
bottom  of  the  ravine,  and  cross  over,  so,  to  East 
Spur."  He  said  it,  coming  to  her  side  in  safety. 

Her  tongue  clave  to  the  roof  of  her  mouth.  She 
looked  up  at  him  with  wide-distended  eyes,  speechless. 
The  reaction  could  not  come  at  once.  Her  senses  held 
themselves  at  the  climax  of  their  strain. 

He  stooped  down  and  took  her  by  both  hands. 

"Say!  This  won't  do!  What  is  the  matter?" 
Then  he  put  his  arm  about  her  and  lifted  her  up. 

It  was  well  he  had  been  cold  and  mechanical  before. 
The  difference  now,  the  gentle  words,  the  helpful 
touch,  did  what  the  sudden  sight  of  his  safety,  not 
making  itself  believed  in  instantly,  had  failed  to  do. 
The  tension  of  nerve  and  spirit  gave  way;  she  burst 
into  uncontrollable  tears. 

"There  will  be  nothing  more  like  this,  Say;  and  you 
must  keep  your  courage  up ;  you  have  been  very  brave." 

"I'm  not  frightened;  it  isn't  that,"  she  gasped 
out,  checking  her  sobs,  and  looking  up  at  him  again, 
with  a  little  nervous  attempt  at  smiling.  "What  did 
you  come  to,  out  there  ?  " 

"Nothing." 

"Nothing?" 

"Just  that.  And  when  I  found  there  was  nothing^ 
—  why,  of  course,  I  came  back  again." 


376  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

"It  was  horrible, — waiting!  I  didn't  under 
stand,  till  after  you  were  gone." 

There  could  be  no  sham  in  this.  Ger shorn  knew 
that  she  had  borne  a  torture  of  terror  for  him. 

"  Can  you  come  on  now  ?  "  He  kept  her  hand  in 
his  to  lead  her  down.  The  way  was  steep,  but  it  was 
a  side-cliff,  where  they  could  scramble  from  rock  to 
rock  together.  There  were  no  more  narrow  passes. 
From  his  perilous  outlook,  a  moment  since,  he  had  seen 
this,  which  they  could  not  see  from  hence,  and  that 
the  descent  was  possible. 

Say  gathered  her  forces  together  once  more.  She 
would  not  be  a  perplexity  or  a  burden.  She  must  go 
on  with  him,  and  she  would  go  on  bravely.  The  elastic 
joy  was  over ;  but  she  could  be  strong ;  she  could  per 
severe.  She  could  do  anything  with  his  hand  holding 
her,  no  longer  perforce,  but  with  a  kind  solicitude. 

There  were  long  spaces  for  them  to  drop  down,  de 
scending  this  rough  Titanic  staircase ;  hands  and  feet 
were  both  needed,  often;  there  were  leaps,  not  insig 
nificant,  over  rifts  and  chasms ;  they  had  got  into  the 
very  heart  of  one  of  nature's  wild  and  secret  places. 
There  was  no  path;  the  semblance  of  one  that  they 
might  have  followed  lay  below ;  they  should  have  de 
scended  to  it  from  a  point  far  back ;  but  it  was  better 
to  keep  on  this  way  now.  Half-way  down  into  the 
ravine,  as  Gershom  had  said,  they  found  it ;  it  took 
them  upon  a  new  platform,  or  landing,  of  table-rock, 
that  jutted  from  the  overhanging  cliff.  A  little 
trickle  of  water  came  down,  through  a  cranny  in  the 
bare  face  of  it,  a  shorter  way,  to  meet  them;  it 
dropped  upon  the  granite  floor  and  rolled  away  over 
its  edge  again,  a  thread  of  waterfall  that  went  to  help 
make  up  the  brook,  winding  itself  in  the  glen  below. 

Gershom  had  his  tin  cup  still  in  his  jacket  pocket; 
a  little  flat  bit  of  a  dipper,  that  would  hold,  maybe, 


OVER  EAST  SPUE.  377 

two  wineglassfuls.  He  drew  it  out  and  held  it  to 
catch  the  drops.  He  gave  them  to  Say  to  drink.  They 
made  her  stronger.  She  looked  up  when  she  had  swal 
lowed  them,  and  her  eye  searched  the  far-up,  impending 
outline  of  the  crag.  Away  up,  under  its  very  top,  was 
where  Gershom  had  gone,  clinging,  till  he  came  where 
there  was  —  nothing !  She  could  not  trace,  from  here, 
more  than  a  faint  line,  to  show  her  where  the  narrov: 
ledge  had  wound.  If  they  had  both  ventured !  She 
said  nothing,  but  there  came  a  shudder  over  her,  and 
she  turned  away. 

"We  must  go  on,"  said  Gershom.  "They  will  be 
watching  to  see  us  safe  out  on  the  Spur;  and  the  sun 
is  lowering." 

It  was  only  to  climb,  now.  Rough  work;  and  the 
dress  had  new  knots  in  it  before  long,  where  the  strings 
and  streamers  had  grown  troublesome,  and  must  be 
gathered  up.  The  trim,  dainty  little  figure  was  oddly 
metamorphosed.  But  Gershom  liked  her  better  so, 
somehow,  perverse  fellow,  than  he  had  dbne  in  the 
delicate  array  of  purple-pansied  muslin  and  lace  frills 
and  floating  ribbon.  She  was  no  "thing  for  a  shop- 
window,  "  now,  assuredly. 

They  stood  out  on  the  bare,  high  shoulder-top  of 
East  Spur  at  last ;  and  all  this  had  been  done  in  about 
five  and  thirty  minutes.  Down  a  little  upon  their  way 
over  the  south  slope,  the  rest  of  the  party  had  paused 
and  turned  aside,  and  were  waiting  upon  an  opposite 
height,  that  brought  them  marvelously  near,  by  an 
air  line,  the  point  these  two  had  reached  by  such  a 
.round  of  toil  and  danger.  From  this  to  that  there  was 
no  passing,  though.  They  could  hail  each  other,  with 
shawls  and  scarfs  tied  upon  bough  and  staff  and  waved 
in  signal.  That  was  all.  And  then  by  their  two 
roads  they  went  their  ways,  down  the  two  separate  sides 
of  stern,  uncompromising  old  Boar-back. 


378  THE  GAYWOBTHYS. 

There  is  no  act  or  circumstance  but  bears  its  typical 
relations.  We  feel  obscurely  many  times  a  meaning 
and  significance  in  what  we  do,  a  method  in  our  acci 
dents,  that  startles  us  with  a  fear,  a  joy,  an  embar 
rassment  ;  that  carries  us,  by  a  strange  likeness  or 
suggestion,  into  a  past  that  we  dimly,  and  perhaps 
mysteriously,  remember,  or  forereaches  into  a  future 
moment  that  might  come. 

Not  a  word  was  said  of  it,  in  the  merry  party  that 
turned  off  together  down  the  south-side  track,  relieved 
and  satisfied  to  have  seen  their  companions  safe,  —  far 
less  between  the  two  left  so  to  their  own  separate  pil 
grimage.  But  it  was  like,  and  they  all  had  a  glimmer 
of  the  likeness,  the  setting  forth  of  two  together  in 
such  fashion,  striking  off  and  away  into  a  strange  and 
untried  life-path  opened  for  them  only.  Relinquished 
to  each  other ;  cheered  away  with  friendly  signals ;  but 
left  then  to  their  own  shif tings;  to  make  the  best  of 
it  they  might. 

Say  had 'a  strange  shyness  come  over  her  for  a  min 
ute  that  she  did  not  try  to  define.  Gershom  had  as 
strange  a  pulse  —  a  single  one  —  of  something  gladder 
than  he  cared  to  question,  as  they  turned  and  met  each 
other's  faces,  after  watching  the  rest  away  among  the 
shadows,  and  stood  alone  again  with  wilderness  above, 
below,  about  them. 

"  Come !  "  he  said,  and  stretched  out  his  hand. 

And  Say  came. 

There  was  a  joy  of  claim  and  confidence,  unanalyzed, 
between  them  in  that  instant.  A  key-note  struck,  — 
responded;  a  phrase  of  music  uttered,  revealing  the 
whole  power  and  harmony  life  had  for  them.  It  should 
be  played  out  —  somewhere.  If  only  there  were  no 
discords  that  might  lie  between  this  and  its  full  evolve- 
ment! 

They  kept  the  crest-line  of  the  Spur,  down  to  where 


OVER  EAST  SPUE.  379 

thick  woods  began  again ;  it  led  them  straight  to  the 
opening  of  the  logging-road,  cut  through  a  dense  growth 
of  trees,  and  winding  down  between  tangled  branches 
and  underbrush.  A  mere  gully  it  seemed,  now ;  a 
path  for  a  mountain  torrent,  or  a  wake  left  by  some 
old  tornado ;  it  was  the  only  way  through  impenetrable 
forest.  Disused  long  ago,  and  fallen  into  more  than 
its  original  roughness,  by  reason  of  rains,  and  gradual 
change  of  wearing  earth  and  rolling  stone,  and  forest 
fall  and  decay,  it  was  no  easy  path,  though  a  sure  one, 
and  devoid  of  all  absolute  danger. 

It  was  down-hill,  without  break  or  rest.  Say  sprang, 
as  she  needs  must,  from  rock  to  stump,  from  log  to 
knoll,  flying  leaps,  some  of  them,  —  on  without  pause ; 
getting  exhilarated  again  by  the  exercise  and  rapid 
progress,  and  not  realizing  the  fatigue  she  was  actually 
enduring.  Breath  failed  a  little  after  a  time;  and 
she  caught  herself  up  against  the  overleaning  trunk  of 
an  oak,  and  looked  back  to  Gershom,  who  was  close 
behind,  with  a  panting,  comical  appeal. 

"I  don't  believe  there  'a  any  'down  '  to  it;  it 's  one 
everlasting  tumble." 

"  Half-way  down  we  shall  find  a  rest ;  and  then  we 
shall  be  sure  about  our  daylight.  Are  you  warm?  " 

"Exhaling!" 

"Thirsty?" 

"What's  the  use?" 

He  held  out  his  tin  cup,  sparkling  with  its  little 
treasure  of  clear  water. 

"Where  did  you  find  that?     I  've  seen  none." 

"I  knew  of  a  spring,  just  back  here,  off  the  road, 
and  turned  in  luckily,  at  the  right  spot." 

"I  didn't  miss  you.      How  strange!  " 

"It  only  took  a  minute.      I  didn't  want  to   s:. 
water,  until  I  'd  got  it." 

"No,  indeed.      I  should  have  choked,  instantly.'" 


380  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

"Drink  now,  then." 

Simple  little  words  these,  that  they  exchanged ;  but 
they  were  very  sweet  with  the  old,  familiar  ease  and 
sympathy;  very  sweet,  also,  was  the  draught  Say  took 
from  the  tiny  dipper.  It  was  beautiful  to  be  cared 
for  so,  and  by  Gershom !  It  was  like  the  old  time  of 
the  clothes-room  and  the  strawberry  feasting.  Oh  dear ! 
why  must  they  ever  come  out  of  the  woods,  and  go  back 
—  she  knew  they  would  —  to  their  distance,  and  their 
different  ways,  and  their  half  understandings? 

It  was  very  lovely  and  pleasant,  half-way  down, 
where  a  huge  rock  upheaved  and  abutted  itself,  gather 
ing  against  its  sturdy  back  the  soil  and  sod  that  made 
a  soft  sylvan  throne  under  wide  oak  branches,  where 
Gershom  lifted  Say  and  placed  her,  and  sat  himself 
down  at  her  side. 

They  had  earned  a  rest;  they  had  gained  time  to 
take  it ;  there  was  no  keen  wind  here ;  Say  only  drew 
up  the  folds  of  her  shawl  about  her  throat  again,  that 
she  had  pushed  back  upon  her  shoulders  in  the  heat  of 
her  down-scramble.  And  the  twilight  was  about  them, 
soft  and  sweet ;  and  little  trickling  music  of  unseen 
water,  and  faint  evening  chirp  of  early  birds;  and 
away  off  to  the  southeast  lay  other  hills,  purple  in  the 
level  light;  while,  behind,  the  great  might  of  Boar- 
back,  with  all  its  mysteries  and  grandeur  of  cliff  and 
chasm,  and  piled-up  solid  heights,  and  unexplored  ra 
vines,  and  pathless  woods,  lifted  and  stretched  itself, 
too  vast  for  them  to  see  until  they  should  get  away 
from  it,  and  it,  too,  should  shape  itself  in  purple  dis 
tance. 

Say  could  not  help  feeling  very  happy.  Too  quietly 
happy,  too  tired,  perhaps,  to  talk  much;  so  she  sat 
and  thought.  Thoughts  came  abundantly.  How  dif 
ferent  this  day's  life  had  been  from  ordinary  living ! 
How  grand  and  awful  the  world  was,  with  its  high 


OVER  EAST  SPUE.  381 

and  hidden  places,  where  people  might  come  and  look, 
but  by  no  means  abide !  The  great  mountains,  — 
waste  land,  —  acres  and  acres  of  bare  granite,  and  un 
tamable  wilds,  — that  were  nobody's  land  —  but 
God's. 

And  then  —  as  such  do  bring  themselves  to  our  re 
membrance —  some  words  of  Holy  Scripture  flashed 
bright  across  her  thinking.  Over  and  over,  she  was 
saying  them  to  herself,  with  a  new  perception. 

"  Say !     What  are  you  thinking  about  ?  " 

Say  hesitated  a  second,  and  then  answered :  — 

"'The  strength  of  the  hills.'  I  never  knew  what 
it  was  before." 

"Well,  what  is  it  now?  " 

Gershom  asked  somewhat  curiously.  He  had  not 
caught  the  precise  thread  of  her  musing.  She  had  not 
quoted  all  the  words. 

"The  force  that  is  holding  all  these  rocks  together, 
with  such  a  might,  and  keeps  them  up  in  their  terrible 
places.  Particle  by  particle,  you  know." 

"Cohesion,  yes;   and  gravitation." 

"That 's  what  it  says  in  the  philosophies.  But, 
Gershom,  what  is  cohesion  ?  " 

"You  said;  one  of  the  forces  of  nature." 

"But  those  are  only  names.  Gershom,  is  it  some 
thing  living?  Is  it  God?  working  his  work,  right 
here,  and  everywhere  ?  "  Her  voice  lowered  timidly, 
and  awfully. 

"I  don't  know."  The  young  man's  answer  was  a 
little  constrained. 

Say  was  out  of  herself  for  the  moment.  She  forgot 
to  be  ruled ;  the  press  of  a  high  thought  was  upon  her ; 
that  she  would  not  have  uttered  without  urging;  that, 
being  urged,  must  be  uttered  in  full. 

"'The  strength  of  the  hills  is  his  also,'"  she  re 
peated  slowly.  "It  reminded  me  of  that,  and  it 


382  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

seems  to  mean  a  living  strength.  Like  ours  that  is 
in  us." 

Gershom  looked  round  into  Say's  face.  It  was 
turned  away  from  him,  and  up  toward  the  towering 
mass  that  lay  beside  and  behind  them,  filling  the  whole 
northwestern  sky  with  its  heights  of  gloom. 

She  was  in  earnest,  then;  and  this  was  a  real 
thought-  of  hers.  There  was  something  curious  about 
this  child,  with  her  bronze  boots  and  her  "behavior," 
with  her  grown-up  elegance  that  he  called  frippery 
and  sham,  her  refinements  that  seemed  to  him,  often, 
grappler  as  he  was  with  realities,  the  flimsiest  of  affec 
tations,  beneath  which  nothing  real  and  true  could  be. 

He  was  not  startled  or  offended  at  this  name  of 
"God,"  as  many  a  young  man  in  society,  going  to 
church  regularly  of  a  Sunday,  but  holding  church  topics 
tabooed  in  polite  talk  of  a  weekday,  might  have  been. 
He  had  had  little  church-going,  these  last  eight  years ; 
he  had  seen  little  of  the  decorum  of  a  trained  Chris 
tianity;  the  Great  Name  had  been  often  in  his  ears, 
when  it  was  not  a  reverence  but  a  blasphemy ;  but  he 
had  been  among  men  who  had  their  own  thoughts, 
after  all,  of  God,  and  the  great  beyond ;  who,  when 
these  came  uppermost,  spoke  them,  without  whining 
or  shamef acedness ;  rough,  unscrupulous,  even  doubting 
thoughts,  they  might  be;  yet  real,  unmechanical ; 
avowed  as  readily  as  any  other  thoughts ;  laid  away  for 
no  set  and  proper  occasions,  and  held  an  indecency  at 
common  times.  It  was  not  this  that  made  his  con 
straint  ;  it  was  a  something  that  lay  only  between  him 
and  Sarah  Gair ;  the  girl  he  would  not  have  utter  faith 
in;  to  whom  he  would  not  willingly  draw  near  with 
any  touch  of  a  deep  sympathy.  "Trusting  and  ex 
pecting."  He  would  have  nothing  of  that;  least  of 
all,  with  Jane  Gair's  child. 

Yet  he  turned  and  looked  at  her ;   and  he  saw  her 


OVER  EAST  SPUR.  383 

face  lit  with  a  real,  earnest  thought.  It  was  there, 
for  the  moment,  at  least;  there  was  no  discredit 
ing  it. 

He  had  heard  her  speak  Bible  words,  even  utter  her 
understanding  of  them,  before;  in  the  New  England 
home  where  they  had  been  so  much  together,  under  the 
sweet,  saintly  influence  of  Aunt  Rebecca,  it  would 
have  been  strange  if  he  had  not.  But  it  had  seemed 
like  hearsay;  interpretation  put  upon  her;  Sunday- 
school  drill ;  matter  of  course ;  a  part  of  the  great  sys 
tem,  deep  or  shallow,  as  you  took  it,  whereof  the  text 
and  platform  was,  as  Say  had  expressed  it  of  old, 
"People  must  behave,  you  know."  Abstract  theory, 
to  which  it  was  proper  to  subscribe,  but  which  had 
little  vital  connection  with  any  everyday  doing  or  ap 
prehension  ;  except,  perhaps,  —  as  in  the  beauty  of 
that  home  the  exception  had  been  forced  upon  him,  — 
with  grand,  kindly  natured  old  men,  and  saintly, 
world-innocent  women. 

But  here  was  a  sudden,  spontaneous  recognition  of 
"something  living."  Something  living  in  the  dead 
rock;  something  living  in  the  old  words  that  sung 
their  mountain-psalm  to  the  world  three  thousand 
years  ago. 

Against  his  will,  there  was  something  living  touched 
in  the  sailor's  soul. 

And  against  this  came  up  the  perplexity,  the  doubt, 
of  a  hard  life,  among  hard,  suffering  lives. 

"The  strength  of  the  hills  is  a  very  pitiless 
strength."  This  was  what  he  said  to  her,  after  that 
silent  look,  in  answer. 

There  came  a  shadow  and  a  questioning  over  the  face 
that  turned  now  and  met  his  look  with  its  own.  She 
waited  for  more.  She  hardly  understood. 

"If  you  or  I  had  fallen  from  the  cliff,  among  these 
rocks,  what  would  their  forces  have  done  for  us  ?  " 


384  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

"Crushed  us."  The  words  came  with  a  low  hor* 
ror  in  their  tone. 

"Pitilessly.      I  said  so." 

"I  don't  know."  Say  spoke  slowly,  in  her  turn, 
using  his  own  words,  pausing  between  the  syllables. 

"No;  we  don't  know.  The  world  is  full  of  awful 
strength,  and  men  run  against  it  everywhere,  like  help 
less  things,  and  are  crushed.  If  the  rocks  are  pitiless, 
the  sea  seems  worse.  The  rocks  wait;  but  the  sea 
rushes  after  you,  and  beats  upon  you,  and  fights  for 
your  life.  Then  think  of  all  the  waste  places,  where 
beasts  and  savages  howl,  and  tear,  and  torture  each 
other.  And  safe  people,  in  quiet  little  villages,  sit 
together  in  comfortable  meeting-houses,  dressed  up,  to 
please  each  other,  and  talk  about  God !  and  think  they 
understand  something  about  Him !  Handfuls  of  peo 
ple,  in  little  corners  of  the  great  world !  And  the 
wars,  and  the  tempests,  and  the  starvings  and  burn 
ings,  and  drownings  and  cursings  are  going  on,  all  over 
it,  at  the  self-same  time !  " 

Say  had  no  reply  for  this,  for  an  instant.  It  was 
too  dreadful,  in  its  doubt  and  its  darkness;  too  over 
whelming  with  its  outside  force  of  truth. 

"But,"  she  said  presently,  "God  must  be  there. 
He  is  everywhere.  You  believe  it,  don't  you,  Ger- 
shom?" 

"I  suppose  I  do.  I  suppose  I  believe  pretty  much 
what  other  people  do.  But  I  can't  settle  everything 
by  rule  and  line  as  they  do.  I  don't  know  much,  and 
I  see  terrible  mysteries  in  the  world." 

Say  sat  and  thought  silently.  All  at  once  she 
brightened. 

"But  these  are  mysteries  of  nature,  and  dangers  of 
men's  bodies.  There's  the  soul;  and  God's  soul  is 
behind  his  strength,  as  men's  are  behind  theirs." 

"You  'd  better   not  talk  to  me,    Say,    about  these 


OVER  EAST  SPUR.  385 

things.  I  don't  know,  altogether,  what  I  do  think; 
and  I've  some  thoughts  you  mightn't  be  the  better 
of." 

"Oh,  Gershie!  "  was  on  Say's  lips  to  cry.  But  she 
had  an  instinctive  knowledge  that,  with  the  first  symp 
tom  of  personal  feeling,  the  talk  would  be  over,  and 
she  could  not  have  it  end  just  so. 

She  was  silent,  but  she  did  not  stir.  Gershom 
waited  her  movement,  and  she  made  none.  She  sat 
and  looked,  still,  at  the  great  mountain,  with  its  hid 
den,  living  strength. 

"  It  must  be  all  right !  "  The  words  escaped  her  at 
length,  half  involuntarily. 

"I  wonder  what  you'd  say  about  men's  souls  if 
you  'd  seen  the  things  I  have."  This  came,  an  utter 
ance  almost  as  involuntary,  out  of  Gershom 's  silent 
thinking. 

Say  sat  still,  and  answered  never  a  word.  Silence 
draws  sometimes  more  than  speech. 

"Grinding,  and  persecution,  and  treachery,  and 
meanness,  and  every  sin  and  shame  that  has  a  name, 
or  is  too  bad  for  one." 

"You  must  have  seen  horrible  things,  Gershom," 
said  Say,  in  a  suppressed  tone.  "But  haven't  you 
seen  good  things,  sometimes,  too?  I  know  you 
have !  " 

Here,  again,  there  was  more  upon  her  lips  that  she 
dared  not  speak.  His  own  brave,  noble  doings  were 
quick  in  her  mind,  warm  at  her  heart ;  but  Gershom 
would  "Pshaw!  "  if  she  breathed  of  these  to  him;  and 
that  would  end  everything  at  once,  with  a  cold  revul 
sion. 

"They  were  like  light  in  a  great  darkness,"  said 
Gershom  moodily. 

"But  you  see  you  have  not  lived  at  home.  You 
have  seen  the  hardest  part  of  life." 


386  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

"I've  seen  the  largest  part,  and  I've  found  out 
something  about  homes,  and  your  good  Christian  people, 
too!  "  he  added,  with  the  old,  bitter  sneer.  "I  tell 
you,  it  'a  a  fine  thing,  and  an  easy  thing,  of  a  pleas 
ant  Sunday,  in  a  comfortable  church,  between  a  good 
breakfast  and  dinner,  with  every  nerve  at  rest,  to  be 
lieve  pretty  things  about  God  and  religion.  But  what 
if  you  were  hungry,  and  had  no  home  ?  What  if  your 
bones  were  crushed,  and  you  were  lying  in  some  hospi 
tal,  and  nobody  cared  for  you,  and  they  only  counted 
you  as  'a  bed'?  I've  seen  men  so, — shipmates. 
What  if  your  whole  life  was  nothing  but  one  great 
pain?" 

There  was  a  hush  again  until  Say  said,  tremulously 
and  humbly,  speaking  beyond  herself  and  her  little 
experience,  surely,  that  which  was  given  her  for  her 
self,  and  for  that  other  soul  also. 

"I  don't  know;  unless  I  found  that  God  was  in  the 
pain,  too !  " 

"  But  suppose,  "  —  Gershom  went  on  remorselessly 
now,  swayed  by  his  own  bitter  impulse  of  doubt,  born 
of  the  hard  things  he  had  seen  and  suffered,  —  "sup 
pose  you  'd  been  deceived,  till  you  could  n't  trust 
them  that  ought  to  be  your  best  friends;  suppose  that 
you  had  never  known  more  than  three  people  that  you 
could  believe  in,  and  suppose  you  'd  known  them 
cheated  and  ill-used,  till  it  was  harder  to  think  of  for 
them,  than  for  yourself ;  supposing  you  had  seen  all 
the  rest  of  the  world  outwitting  and  hustling,  and 
chuckling  over  each  other,  like  the  devil's  own  chil 
dren,  till  you  were  ready  to  hate  the  very  sun  for 
shining  on  such  things  ?  Where  would  you  find  God 
and  goodness  in  all  that  ?  " 

Say  stood  up  suddenly  before  him.  Instead  of  a 
direct  answer,  she  gave,  for  all  his  questions,  a  single, 
searching  one,  that  rang  clear  over  the  confusion  that 
was  in  him. 


OVER  EAST  SPUR.  387 

"Gershom  Vorse!  do  you  think  you  are  the  only 
soul  God  has  made  capable  of  hating  such  things  as 
these  ?  " 

Out  of  his  very  scorn  he  was  answered. 

He  stood  upon  his  feet,  too,  then.  He  looked 
again  in  the  glowing  young  face,  that  was  almost  an 
gry  in  its  bending  upon  him.  It  was  better  than  if 
she  had  told  him  of  his  goodness,  his  bravery ;  she  had 
charged  him  boldly  with  a  haughty  assumption  in  this 
noble  hate  of  his ;  she  had  given  him  a  weapon  for  his 
innate  truth  to  grasp,  against  his  own  dark  uncertain 
ties.  Something  lighted  and  softened  in  his  eyes  as 
he  looked  upon  her. 

"That  was  a  good  word,"  he  said  honestly,  with 
a  changed  tone.  "A  good  word  for  a  last  one. 
We  '11  let  that  be  the  end  of  it." 

The  rest  of  the  walk  was  nothing.  The  getting 
home  to  cousin  Wealthy 's,  the  nice  supper,  the  an 
swering  their  eager  questions,  the  being  comfortably 
helped  to  bed  by  Aunt  Joanna;  all  these  were  well 
enough  at  any  other  time,  but  she  went  through  them 
all  mechanically.  At  most,  they  were  but  interrup 
tions. 

"She  is  tired  out,"  they  said. 

Say  lay  down  to  her  rest  with  crowding  thoughts ; 
with  some  misgivings,  but  a  great  peace  shining 
through  them  all.  She  had  said  "  a  good  word  "  to 
Gershom.  It  had  pleased  him,  for  that  it  was  true 
and  bold.  She  had  met  him  on  his  own  ground. 
They  had  come  near  each  other  again,  at  last.  She 
wondered  at  her  own  new  strength ;  she,  that  had  al 
ways  been  so  timid,  —  so  easily  put  down. 

Would  things  be  different  after  this?  She  won* 
dered  how  it  would  be  in  the  morning 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

SUNDAY. 

IN  the  morning,  Landy  came  over  early  with  in 
quiries  and  a  parcel.  Say's  dress  for  the  Sunday,  and 
other  needfuls.  When  the  sweet  breath  of  the  woods, 
and  the  wild  singing,  coming  in  upon  her  through  the 
window  Joanna  had  softly  set  open,  roused  Say  to  a 
full  wakefulness,  she  saw,  delicately  laid  out  on  one 
chair,  the  pansy-muslin  carefully  pressed  over,  and  the 
puffings  perked  out  in  all  the  dainty  freshness  of  its 
first  day;  on  another,  in  the  opposite  window,  the 
blue  foulard,  —  looped  and  knotted  and  draggled  and 
rent ;  looking  like  a  banner  brought  home  from  battle. 
Beside  it,  on  the  floor,  lay  the  little  black  boots,  so 
trim  and  neat  yesterday  at  starting,  bursted  and  torn, 
trodden  into  such  shape  as  no  boot  of  hers  had  ever 
come  to  before;  making  her  think  of  the  twelve  prin 
cesses  in  the  fairy  tale  who  mysteriously  danced  their 
shoes  out  every  night.  It  was  like  a  night-vision  to 
her,  almost,  the  recollection  of  that  mountain  dance 
of  yesterday ;  like  a  dream,  the  strange,  earnest  talk 
with  Gershom;  but  a  blessed,  present  joy, —  something 
that  she  grasped  to  her  soul,  —  the  tone  that  rang 
back  to  her  recollection  as  she  had  it  from  his  lips,  at 
the  last,  his  harshness  and  bitterness  suddenly  swept 
away,  — 

"That 's  a  good  word.  For  the  last.  We  '11  let 
it  be  the  end." 

It  was  so  honest  and  noble  of  him,  too,  taking  the 
good  out  of  it  when  she  had  felt  it  hard  and  sharp  in 
the  saying,  —  launched  with  almost  a  passionate  indig 
nation. 


SUNDAY.  389 

She  was  half  sorry  to  break  the  spell ;  to  come  down 
in  her  proper  and  nice  array  again ;  she  would  almost 
rather  have  put  on  the  old,  bedraggled,  forlorn  foulard, 
if  so  she  could  have  kept  the  spirit  of  some  of  those 
moments  of  which  it  was  like  a  sacred  relic.  She 
rolled  it  tenderly  up  with  all  its  rags  and  stains,  putting 
the  demolished  boots  within  it,  resolving  to  herself, 
secretly,  that  it  should  never  go  the  way  of  other  rags 
and  wrecks,  but  that  she  would  put  it  carefully  where 
she  might  keep  it  safely,  always. 

For  Gershom  had  seemed  like  a  brother  again ;  and 
she  had  said  one  word  to  him  that  he  had  confessed 
was  good. 

Very  sisterly,  this  was,  all  of  it.  Say  thought  so. 
She  had  never  had  a  real  brother ;  so  how  should  she 
be  supposed  to  know? 

She  could  not  help  her  habit  of  niceness ;  she  could 
not  turn  away  from  that  image  in  the  little  mirror 
until  every  wavy  line  lay  smooth  upon  the  bright  head, 
and  rolled  itself  away  gracefully  into  the  braids  be 
hind  ;  any  more  than  an  artist  could  turn  from  his 
work,  leaving  a  heedless  or  mistaken  touch.  It  was 
habit,  — •  instinct ;  sense  of  the  pure  and  perfect ;  these 
more  than  vanity.  She  could  not  have  done  violence 
to  her  nature,  she  could  not  deliberately  make  herself 
dowdy,  even  though  Gershom  should  have  really  liked 
her  better  so.  Which,  knowing  something  of  men 
and  their  contradictions,  we  may  feel  tolerably  safe  in 
doubting,  after  all. 

She  had  slept  late.  When  she  entered  the  room 
below,  she  found  only  Joanna  sitting  there,  and  the 
table  cleared,  except  of  one  pink- and- white  china 
plate,  and  a  quaint  little  coffee-mug  and  saucer  to 
match. 

Cousin  Wealthy  brought  in  two  fresh  wheaten  rolls, 
baked  since  Say's  footstep  had  first  sounded  above; 


390  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

two  new-laid  eggs,  boiled  since  her  door  had  opened ;  a 
little  pitcher  of  golden-brown  coffee,  steaming  oriental 
perfume ;  a  tiny,  shallow,  silver  sauceboat,  filled  with 
yellow  cream ;  and  a  pat  of  June  butter,  with  a  daisy 
stamped  on  it. 

There  came  a  double  tread  of  men's  feet  over  the 
platform  outside,  as  Say  sat  down. 

"We  had  company  come  last  night,"  said  cousin 
Wealthy;  and  Gershom  entered,  followed  by  a  tall, 
strong,  grizzled,  sea-browned  man,  with  sailor  gait, 
whose  dark,  searching  eyes,  that  had  looked  on  strange 
lands  and  people  everywhere  all  over  the  earth,  glanced 
round  him  here,  as  if  this  port  of  home,  of  all  others, 
were  strangest. 

"This  is  Mr.  Blackmere, "  said  Gershom,  in  an 
off-hand  way,  that  sounded  like,  "Now  I  've  men 
tioned  it,  you  've  nothing  more  to  do  with  it." 

But  Say  had  heard  of  Ned  Blackmere ;  she  rose  from 
her  chair,  and  walked  to  meet  him,  putting  out  her 
hand.  Looking  straight  up,  also,  with  a  certain  warm 
reverence  in  her  eyes,  into  his  hard,  rough  face. 

I  think  Ned  Blackmere  had  not  touched  a  woman's 
hand  before  for  twenty  years,  perhaps.  How  do  you 
think  he  felt,  then,  as  the  soft,  pure  little  fingers  lay 
for  a  moment  in  his,  that  had  known  nothing  softer 
than  tarred  ropes  and  marline-spikes;  and  the  eyes 
that  had  never  learned  to  keep  the  soul  back  out  of 
them  looked  up,  so,  into  his  own? 

Say  saw  something  in  his  face  that  few  had  met 
there  before ;  she  thought  he  looked  gentle  and  kind . 
She  saw  something  that  did  not  look  quite  strange  to 
her ;  it  was  as  if  the  look  had  somehow  come  into  her 
life  before.  Then  she  remembered  the  old  days  of  the 
Pearl,  and  the  cracking  of  cocoanuts.  There  was 
where  it  had  been ;  yet  the  familiar  gleam  came  with 
its  sudden  grace  of  tenderness,  that  did  not  join  itself 


SUNDAY.  391 

to  her  memories  of  the  rough  sailors.  Presently,  it 
was  gone;  and  when  she  looked  again  she  could  not 
remember  that  she  had  ever  seen  his  face  at  all. 

Gershom  had  been  at  home  ten  days.  He  had  re 
ceived  a  letter  from  the  owners  in  New  York  whose 
ship  he  had  saved  and  brought  home,  offering  him  the 
command  again,  when  she  should  have  been  put  in 
repair.  He  simply  declined  it,  with  thanks.  To  his 
mother  he  gave  reasons ;  they  were  her  due ;  for  her 
sake,  it  was  his  business  to  rise,  if  he  could. 

"They  expect  work  of  their  captains  that  I  couldn't 
do,  mother.  Work  that  is  n't  in  the  written  orders, 
and  could  n't  be,  in  lawfulness  and  honesty.  When 
I 'm  a  merchant  captain,  I  mean  to  be  one;  and  no 
smuggler,  out  or  in." 

"And  now,"  he  said,  "I  want  you  to  do  something 
for  me.  Write  a  letter  to  Blackmere,  —  a  motherly 
letter,  mother,  —  and  get  him  up  here  into  the  hills. 
I  can't  do  it ;  I  've  tried.  He  says  he  's  no  fit  com 
pany  for  anything  but  his  ship  and  his  pipe.  And 
yet,  the  man  has  got  a  soul  like  a  king !  " 

Prudence  wrote;  such  a  letter  as  the  "real  mothers  " 
only  write.  The  kingly  soul  recognized  its  genuine 
ness,  through  the  wrong  and  prejudice  of  years.  Ned 
Blackmere  came;  riding  up  into  Hilbury  hills  that 
same  Saturday  twilight  wherein  Gershom  and  Say  were 
having  their  talk  under  the  shadow  of  Boar-back. 

The  sailor  asked  Wealthy  for  a  match;  and  then  he 
and  Gershom  went  out  again  upon  the  platform  and 
Blackmere  smoked  his  pipe. 

By  and  by  the  sweet  country  chimes  began.  Through 
the  still  air  they  answered  each  other  up  and  down  the 
valley  and  sent  their  tender  echoes  from  the  hills. 
There  were  new  churches  in  the  factory  village  at  the 
Bridge ;  but  all  the  beautiful  and  holy  memories  clus 
tered  still  around  the  ancient  meeting-house  at  the 


392  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

Centre.  No  old  Hilbury  people  thought  of  going  to 
any  other.  Its  mellow  bell  rang  dearer,  solemner 
tones  than  all  the  rest. 

The  "colt"  -  Wealthy  never  had  any  but  a  colt; 
the  old  one  was  dead  and  gone  long  ago,  and  she  had 
driven  his  successor,  now,  for  eight  years  —  stood 
harnessed  to  the  wagon ;  Say  and  Joanna  came  down 
in  their  Sunday  bonnets ;  Joanna's  ribbons  and  laces 
smelling  of  the  quaint,  faint  breath  of  musk  that  our 
grandmothers  loved. 

"Will  you  go  to  meeting,  Gershom?  "  Joanna  asked 
him,  as  she  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"I  guess  not,"  he  answered,  with  a  shadow  of  gruff- 
ness.  "It 's  as  good  out  here  in  the  woods;  and  the 
dress-up  takes  down  the  devotion,  rather,  — for  me." 

"Folks  will  expect  to  see  you;  you  didn't  go  last 
Sunday. " 

"Folks?  I  should  suppose  it  was  the  Lord.  And 
I  don't  want  to  be  seen  of  men,  — or  women." 

Joanna  hadn't  her  gentle  human  theory,  her  "God- 
sibb, "  ready  at  the  moment,  for  answer;  she  let  it 
pass;  it  was  Gershom' s  way. 

Say  passed  by  him  and  spoke  to  Blackmere  out  be 
yond. 

"Won't  you  go  to  church  with  us,  Mr.  Blackmere?  " 
she  said,  with  the  same  sweet  up-look  at  him  she  had 
given  him  before.  It  was  to  the  unused  sailor  very 
much  as  if  a  flower  had  lifted  up  its  head  and  spoken. 

"Yes.  I '11  go."  He  hardly  knew  whether  he  had 
answered  of  his  own  will ;  but  the  words  came  and  he 
stood  pledged.  Gershom  lifted  his  eyelids  a  little  and 
said  nothing. 

So  they  drove  off ;  so  Ned  Blackmere  —  the  rough  old 
salt,  used  to  the  weather-earing  in  a  gale,  used  to 
everything  that  was  hard  and  perilous  and  coarse,  with 
only  a  dream,  in  the  far-back  past,  of  a  child's  home 


SUNDAY.  393 

and  a  mother ;  of  a  sister  who  had  turned  his  love  into 
bitterness ;  of  a  wife  who  had  made  him  hate  and  for 
swear  all  women  for  her  vile  and  disloyal  sake  —  found 
himself  among  women  once  more ;  found  himself  pres 
ently  in  the  quiet  house  whence  prayers  go  up  to  God. 

He  sat  there  in  a  sort  of  maze,  as  in  a  vision  one 
might  seem  to  see  a  world  into  which  one  had  never 
been  born. 

He  wondered  if  this  were  the  real  thing,  and  the 
great  world  outside  that  tossed  and  struggled  and  en 
dured  were  a  huge  mistake.  For  twenty  years  he  had 
never  stumbled  into  a  scene  like  this ;  and  here  were 
people  to  whom  it  was  the  soul  of  their  whole  lives. 
Why  had  God  given  this,  and  that  ?  If  He  were,  and 
if  this  were  his  ordained  way  of  finding  Him,  why  was 
it  only  possible  in  safe  nooks,  while  the  wild  world 
was  roaring  without,  and  the  danger  of  it  to  be  dared 
by  souls  made  hard  and  reckless  to  meet  it,  and  the 
labor  of  it  to  be  done  by  hands  that  had  no  time  to  lift 
themselves  in  prayer? 

The  sermon  did  not  help  him.  After  a  little,  he 
tried  not  to  listen  to  it.  Once  he  caught  himself  in 
the  beginning  of  a  breath  that  would  have  been  a 
whistle  instantly.  It  was  so  hard  for  him  with  his 
vague,  bewildered  thoughts,  and  his  habits  of  uncon- 
straint,  to  remember  the  traditional  sanctities  of  the 
place. 

His  dark  features  gathered  themselves  more  than 
once  into  a  heavy  frown,  as  sentences  of  the  preacher 
broke  in  upon  his  musing  and  forced  a  hearing.  Only 
when  his  eyes  fell  upon  Say,  they  sometimes  softened. 
She  watched  him  when  he  was  not  looking,  and  tried 
to  imagine  what  the  secret  consciousness  behind  that 
stern  face  might  be  like. 

In  the  nooning,  Say  joined  herself  to  Blackmere 
again,  and  asked  him  to  come  into  the  churchyard* 


394  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

She  would  show  him  old  gravestones  and  curious  in 
scriptions.  She  felt  responsible  for  him  since  she  had 
brought  him  here,  that  he  should  not  feel  strange  or 
dull. 

They  stood  by  graves  inviolate  for  upwards  of  a 
century. 

"They  rest  quiet  enough,  all  of  'em,"  said  the 
sailor.  "Don't  they?  " 

"  '  In  the  hope  of  a  blessed  resurrection,'  "  read  Say, 
from  a  gray  stone,  in  answer. 

"  *  Asleep  in  Jesus,'  "  repeated  Blackmere,  standing 
before  another.  "Well,  they  seem  sure  enough  about 
that,  some  of  'em.  Seems  to  me,  when  there  's  so  few 
to  be  privileged,  it  won't  do  to  be  too  certain.  How 
about  them  that  never  knew  whether  Jesus  cared  a 
hang  for  them  or  not  ?  " 

A  shadow  of  contraction  passed  over  Say's  face  at 
the  reckless  expression. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  I  'm  a  rough  fellow.  I  'd  no 
business  to  come  here  at  all. " 

"They  have  all  been  taught.  We  all  know  that  He 
came  to  save  us."  Say  answered  his  first  words,  now, 
as  if  they  had  been  spoken  in  all  reverence. 

"  Do  we  ?  "  There  was  a  curl  of  the  lip,  and  a 
slight  sarcasm  in  the  tone. 

The  young  girl  looked  pained. 

"See  here!"  said  Blackmere,  again;  "you're  not 
the  sort  of  person  for  me  to  speak  out  to  so ;  and  yet, 
somehow,  I  can't  help  it.  I  don't  know  why,  but 
you  've  got  me  here ;  and  now  you  make  me  talk.  So 
if  it  is  n't  just  the  sort  of  talk,  or  the  ways  of  thinking, 
that  you  've  been  used  to,  you  must  think  what  I've 
been  used  to,  and  overlook  it.  I  've  never  had  much 
good  of  preachers;  and  till  this  blessed  morning,  I 
haven't  set  foot  in  a  church  for  over  twenty  years. 
And  what  do  they  tell  me  when  I  do  come  ?  You 


SUNDAY.  395 

heard  it.  That  man  stood  up  and  explained  the  Al 
mighty's  secret  plans.  He  don't  mean  to  save  every 
body.  Now,  I  'm  only  a  poor,  good-for-nothing  devil 
of  a  sailor,  and  of  course  I  don't  know;  but  if  /  came 
with  a  life-boat  to  a  wreck,  I  'd  make  no  such  half -job 
of  it.  I  'd  save  every  soul  on  board,  or  I  'd  go  down 
trying!" 

Say's  heart  swelled.  She  could  find  nothing  to  say. 
She  felt  the  fearfulness  of  this  Heaven-arraigning;  but 
she  felt,  also,  the  nobleness  that  Heaven  itself  had 
given. 

"He  's  laid  it  all  out  beforehand  and  forever.  He  's 
elected  some  to  salvation  and  some  to  damnation.  I 
beg  your  pardon  again,  but  that 's  the  preacher's  word, 
and  the  Bible  word  too,  it  seems.  And  it  's  the  word 
my  life  corresponds  to.  It 's  easy  to  tell  which  watch 
I'm  in." 

"It 's  difficult  to  understand  what  they  mean  ex 
actly,  by  these  doctrines,"  said  Say  timidly.  "I've 
never  heard  them  much  except  in  Hilbury.  I  think 
it  was  the  hard,  old  way  of  taking  Bible  words.  I 
couldn't  help  thinking  some  thoughts  of  my  own  this 
morning,  while  Mr.  Scarsley  was  preaching." 

Blackmere  went  on  again,  when  she  paused,  as  fol 
lowing  out  his  own  reflections,  almost  unheeding  her 
words. 

"The  damnation  began  when  I  was  nothing  better 
than  a  baby,"  he  said  bitterly.  "The  curse  came 
among  us  then.  And  it's  gone  on  ever  since;  been 
piled  down  upon  me  heavier  and  heavier.  Did  you 
ever  hear  about  my  life,  young  lady  ?  " 

"I  have  heard  of  a  great  deal  that  you  have  suf 
fered.  I  have  heard  of  very  noble  things  that  you 
have  done." 

"I've  been  in  prison;  for  a  crime.  I've  got  a 
halter  round  my  neck  this  minute,  —  or  the  brand  of 
it.  Did  you  know  that  ?  " 


396  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

His  tone  grew  sharp  and  fierce. 

"I  knew  you  were  accused;  and  I  knew  you  were 
proved  innocent." 

"No.  Not  proved.  They  only  couldn't  make  it 
out  against  me.  Some  of  'em  believe  it  to  this  day." 

"I  don't  think  that.  But  it  has  been  a  hard  thing. 
A  hard  thing  given  you  to  bear,"  she  said  slowly, 
with  a  hidden  meaning  of  consolation. 

"A  piece  of  the  damnation.  A  thing  to  keep  me 
down,  and  thrust  me  out.  To  make  a  vagabond  of 
me,  and  clinch  the  sentence." 

Say  trembled,  standing  there,  at  the  man's  passion. 

She  had  never  had  to  teach.  It  was  hard  for  her 
trying  to  guide,  even  ever  so  slightly,  the  current  of  a 
human  thought  upon  these  themes  of  life  and  death. 
There  was  the  shrinking  every  young  soul  feels  at 
unveiling  its  secret  faith.  She  was  far  from  taking 
it  deliberately  upon  herself  to  admonish;  to  set  this 
doubting  and  discouraged  spirit  right  with  God.  She 
knew,  oh!  very  little.  She  had  seldom  asked  herself, 
even,  what  she  truly  did  know  or  believe.  Life  had 
not  put  its  sternest  questions  to  her,  yet.  But  the 
thought  of  this  man,  —  hard,  despairing,  defiant  with 
the  recklessness  of  one  to  whom  the  truth,  whatever  it 
might  be  to  others,  seemed  only  a  relentless  curse,  — 
this  thought,  this  utterance,  drew  forth  from  her  irre 
sistibly  her  own,  thus,  in  her  first  close  scrutinizing 
of  it,  —  in  its  first  waking  to  a  conscious  strength,  — 
demanded  of  her  instantly. 

"I  can't  make  it  agree  with  what  Jesus  said,  him 
self,"  she  said,  with  modest  reverence.  "'Not  a  spar 
row  falleth  to  the  ground,  without  your  Father.'  'Ye 
are  of  more  value  than  many  sparrows.'  'The  very 
hairs  of  your  head  are  all  numbered. '  ' 

"It  don't  agree.  But  they're  both  alike  in  the 
Bible, "  returned  the  sailor  bluntly. 


SUNDAY.  397 

"'Knowing,  brethren  beloved,  your  election  of 
God, '  "  Say  repeated  thoughtfully.  It  had  been  the 
morning's  text.  "It  made  me  think  —  just  his  read 
ing  it,  and  the  first  few  sentences  he  said,  before  he 
came  to  the  puzzling  part  —  how  comforting  it  was. 
That  everybody  should  be  '  elected  '  •  —  to  their  own 
particular  life,  and  death,  and  all.  Not  forgotten; 
or  let  stumble  into  it  by  accident ;  but  chosen.  And 
I  suppose  the  noblest  souls  —  the  dearest  souls  to 
God  —  might  be  chosen  for  the  hardest.  The  best 
men  in  the  ship  are  chosen  for  the  hardest,  aren't 
they,  Mr.  Blackmere  ?  " 

The  sailor  looked  full  at  her,  with  a  strange  light 
sweeping  suddenly  over  his  face.  The  light  of  a  new, 
gracious  thought,  gleaming  up  across  confused  clouds 
of  doubt.  There  was  doubt  there,  still,  and  hardness; 
but  they  were  shone  upon  unawares. 

"  And  the  trust  —  the  honor  of  it  —  makes  it  easy, 
don't  it?" 

Blackmere  looked  at  her  for  two  or  three  seconds 
before  replying. 

"If  I  could  think  a  thing  like  that!  "  he  exclaimed, 
at  last.  "I  can  stand  taking  the  toughest,  when 
somebody  must  take  it ;  I  never  shirk  a  weather-ear 
ing;  that's  what  I'm  cut  out  for;  but  a  fellow's 
spirit '  s  broke  by  hazing !  " 

"HE  doesn't  haze!  "  The  young  girl  spoke  it  with 
an  awe,  a  tenderness,  an  assurance.  Blackmere  stood 
gazing  at  her  still ;  his  own  look  melting. 

"How  the  Bible  verses  come  up  and  explain  each 
other,  when  one  begins  to  think!  "  said  Say.  "'Whom 
the  Lord  loveth,  he  chasteneth;  and  scourgeth  every 
son  whom  he  receiveth. '  ' 

The  words  fell  slow  and  musical  from  her  lips. 
The  soul  of  the  hard,  life-buffeted  man  caught  them  to 
itself,  like  pearls. 


398  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

They  had  wandered  to  the  oldest,  most  secluded 
part  of  the  cemetery.  Down  the  sunshiny  slope  above 
them  came  now  Aunt  Rebecca,  looking  for  Say.  The 
girl  moved  up  to  join  her.  Blackmere  turned  away 
abruptly,  passing  down  where  the  far,  shaded  extremity 
of  the  burial-place  joined  itself  to  the  natural  forest. 

"I  have  had  such  a  strange  talk  with  Mr.  Black- 
mere,"  said  Say;  and  she  tried  to  tell  it  over  as  they 
walked  up  toward  the  vestry  door  at  the  back  of  the 
old  meeting-house. 

"'Elected!  '  '  repeated  Blackmere  to  himself,  as 
he  plunged  along  the  rustling  woodpath,  unheeding 
whither.  "That  's  a  new  way  to  take  it;  and  a  differ 
ent  one  from  yonder  howling  doctrine.  I  wonder  if 
the  girl's  notion  is  right.  If  I  thought  the  tough  job 
had  been  set  me  by  Him  above,  there,  and  He  cared 
how  I  came  out,  I  'd  face  it  in  a  way  that  wouldn't 
shame  the  stuff  He  's  made  me  of.  I  could  put  a 
heart  into  it !  But  it  never  looked  that  way  to  me 
afore  ;  and  how  should  she  know  ?  And  yet,  when  the 
child  riz  up  to  meet  me  so,  this  morning,  holding  out 
her  hand  for  mine,  it  seemed  somehow  —  I  don't 
know  why  —  as  if  she  'd  come  with  a  gift  in  it!  " 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

LIFE'S  WORD. 

PRUE  had  not  been  to  church.  Wealthy  went  home 
when  the  morning  service  was  ended.  With  her  un- 
wontedly  large  household,  this  was  necessary.  There 
was  a  plentiful  tea-dinner  to  be  got  ready ;  and  Joanna 
and  Rebecca  would  come  round  with  Say,  after  meet 
ing,  to  "pick  up  her  things,"  and  take  her  home.  So, 
at  least,  the  good  woman  had  requested  and  expected. 
But  matters  turned  out  differently. 

The  fatigue  of  the  day  before,  the  exertion  she  had 
already  made  to-day,  the  excitement  of  her  talk  with 
Blackmere,  began  to  assert  themselves  with  Say. 
Coming  up  again,  in  the  face  of  the  hot  summer  sun, 
the  churchyard  slope,  her  head  began  to  throb,  and 
remind  her  with  fast-growing  pain  that  she  had  done 
too  much.  When  she  reached  the  vestry  just  vacated 
by  the  Sunday-school  children,  out  now  for  their  short 
"nooning,"  she  seated  herself  languidly  upon  a  bench, 
and  her  face  suddenly  lost  its  light,  and  her  eyes  con 
tracted  themselves. 

"I  believe  I'm  tired  out,"  she  said,  with  a  little 
smile.  "I  've  just  discovered  it;  but  I  really  am.  I 
wish  I  could  get  home, — to  cousin  Wealthy 's,  I 
mean." 

The  child  remembered  her  treasure  of  rag  and  wreck, 
and  would  rather  secure  it  with  her  own  hands,  si 
lently. 

"I  should  be  nicely  rested  by  the  time  you  came. 
Could  Landy  drive  me,  before  meeting  ?  " 

'  To  be  sure  Landy  could ;  the  first  stroke  of  the  bell, 


400  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

recalling  the  worshipers,  came  after  them  on  the  air, 
as,  round  by  the  Deepwater  road,  Say  and  her  escort 
reached  the  bar-place  into  the  back  pasture  under 
Hoogs's  hill. 

"You  needn't  come  any  farther,"  said  Say,  laying 
her  hand  on  the  reins.  "I  'd  rather  get  out  here,  and 
walk  up. " 

She  wanted  to  go  quietly  into  the  house,  and  reach 
her  room,  if  possible,  unobserved,  to  get  an  hour's  rest 
before  they  should  know  she  had  come  back.  So  she 
checked  the  horse  peremptorily,  and  sprung  out  lightly 
over  the  thills.  Landy,  a  slow  fellow,  had  only  time 
to  get  as  far  as  "he'd  just  as  lieves  " — when  Say 
was  through  the  bar-place,  and  he  found  himself  alone 
in  the  road. 

"She's  a  whisker,  I  vum!"  he  ejaculated,  and 
turned  his  horse's  head  Zionward  again. 

The  path  through  the  back  pasture  wound  up  along 
the  side-hill  and  came  round  under  the  dairy  windows, 
at  the  rear  of  the  house,  and  so,  still  farther  around 
its  end  to  the  square  platform  in  the  front  angle. 
Against  the  building,  at  this  projecting  end,  Jaazaniah 
had  built,  long  ago,  a  rude  bench,  sitting  upon  which, 
one  could  get  the  southerly  breeze  that  came  up  among 
the  pines,  and  also  the  fair,  wild,  southerly  view, 
through  openings  down  the  hillside  to  the  gleam  of  the 
pond.  Just  over  this  rough  seat  was  the  window  by 
which  he  had  lain  in  his  long  illness,  taking  in,  for  all 
joy  and  comfort,  the  sunshine  and  watershine,  the 
shadow  and  fragrance  and  song,  whereto  it  gave  blessed 
aspect  and  entrance. 

Say  got  thus  far  and  paused,  because  she  was  tired, 
and  the  head  beat  with  a  new  aching,  and  it  was  sooth 
ing  here  in  the  shade ;  because  also  she  heard  voices 
in  the  angle,  and  waited,  if  by  any  chance  she  might 
yet  pass  in  unseen. 


LIFE'S  WORD.  401 

They  were  the  voices  of  cousin  Wealthy  and  Ger- 
shom  Vorse;  and  these  words  came  first  distinctly  to 
her  ear. 

"It 's  all  a  queer  mixing  up  of  things,  to  me.  That 
girl  talked  yesterday,  upon  the  mountain,  about  God, 
with  a  look  in  her  face  as  if  she  felt  Him ;  and  to-day, 
she  had  on  her  little  dainty  airs  and  smiles  again,  and 
must  goto  meeting  in  starched  muslin!  It 's  a  curious 
world." 

"The  world  's  well  enough,  Gershom  Vorse.  And 
what 's  more,  if  it  wasn't,  you  're  in  it,  and  part  and 
parcel  of  it,  queerness  and  all!  You  can't  stand  off, 
and  look  down  upon  it,  and  judge  it.  There  's  only 
One  can  do  that.  And  He  don't.  He  came  down 
amongst  us.  You  're  hard  upon  the  world,  Gershom; 
and  you  're  hard  upon  that  child.  She  may  n't  be  clear 
wisdom  and  perfection,  but  she  's  a  bright,  loving  little 
thing,  and  she  sets  by  you,  as  she  does  by  her  life. 
Only  think;  she  never  had  an  own  brother,  nor  even  a 
sister." 

The  woman  instinct  and  esprit  du  corps  it  was  that 
put  in  that,  and  the  child,  listening,  blessed  her  for  it ; 
blessed  her,  while  her  cheeks  flamed  and  her  hot  brow 
throbbed  more  wildly,  and  a  strange  shimmer  of  light 
seemed  to  show  her,  suddenly,  a  place  in  her  own 
heart  that  she  had  never  looked  into  before. 

"You  must  take  love  as  you  can  get  it,  — ore  or 
nuggets,  —  and  be  thankful,  or  go  without.  The  Lord 
never  sends  it  for  nothing,  and  however  it  comes,  it 's 
a  piece  of  his  own.  Sarah  Gair  has  grown  up  with 
you  in  her  very  heart,  and  it  's  a  cruel  way  you  take 
with  her,  slighting  and  faultfinding,  and  watching  and 
carping.  I  've  ached  to  tell  you  so,  and  now  I  've 
done  it." 

"I  like  Say;  I  always  did;  but  she's  had  a  poor 
bringing  up." 


402  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

"That  ain't  her  fault,  and  I  can't  see  as  it 's  done 
her  so  very  much  harm.  I  'm  an  old  woman,  Ger- 
shom,  and  I  know  what  things  are  worth.  I  '11  tell 
you  something  about  myself.  I  did  n't  always  take 
things  right  end  foremost.  I  had  a  way  once  of  twist 
ing  'em  about  and  looking  'em  over,  to  find  specks  in 
'em.  I  kept  Jaazaniah  off  and  on  as  long  as  his  mother 
lived.  It  didn't  seem  to  me  always  he  was  right  up 
to  the  mark  in  everything,  as  I  wished  he  was.  Well, 
when  she  died,  of  course  I  couldn't  go  on  staying  here 
alone  with  him,  so  I  packed  up  and  went  off,  and  lived 
along  of  Mrs.  Gibson  for  more  'n  a  year;  and  all  that 
time  he  was  after  me  and  I  was  considering.  I  could  n't 
give  him  quite  up.  There  was  n't  as  much  more  love 
left  for  me,  in  the  whole  world,  as  there  was  in  that 
great,  clumsy,  honest  heart  of  his.  Sometimes  I  'd 
as  good  as  made  up  my  mind,  and  then  he  'd  go  and 
say  or  do  something,  or  not  do  it,  that  would  just  up 
set  the  whole  calabash,  and  I  'd  have  to  begin  all  over 
again,  persuading  myself.  But  I  never  stopped  spin 
ning  and  weaving  my  piles  of  house  linen,  for  all  that ; 
if  I  'd  onjy  known,  myself,  what  I  meant  by  it.  The 
thing  that  made  me  Grossest  was  that  he  never  took  up 
spirit  to  answer  me  back  in  my  own  way,  but  just  give 
in  to  all  my  tempers  and  impudence,  when  half  the 
time  the  things  I  said  were  just  to  put  the  very  words 
in  his  mouth  that  he  ought  to  have  said  back,  and  if 
he  had,  would  have  made  me  feel  a  sight  better.  One 
day  he  'd  been  a-pleading  and  I  'd  been  a-hectoring, 
and  finally  I  just  burst  out  at  him.  'Jaazaniah  Hoogs !' 
said  I,  'you  haven't  got  the  character  of  a  fly!  I  do 
wish  there  was  more  to  you. '  Of  all  the  looks  I  ever 
see  in  a  human  face,  his  was  the  grievedest  then,  and 
the  most  humble ;  and  yet  in  a  kind  of  a  way,  it  was 
the  grandest.  There  was  n't  a  particle  of  blame  or 
anger  in  it,  but  a  great,  sorrowful,  patient  enduring. 


LIFE'S  WORD.  403 

'Wealthy,'  says  he,  and  his  words  didn't  sound  mean 
nor  shuffling,  but  real  manly  and  gentle,  'I  know  there 
ain't  much  to  me.  I  wish  there  was  a  great  deal  more, 
for  your  sake;  but  you  've  got  all  there  is!  '  I  took 
him  then,  for  he  belonged  to  me,  and  I  've  known  ever 
since  that  we  belonged  together.  We  belong  together 
yet." 

Wealthy 's  voice  shook  a  little,  but  her  words  were 
dear  as  her  faith  was  strong. 

Gershom  Vorse  was  silent.  A  minute  after,  cousin 
Wealthy  walked  away  into  the  house  to  lay  by  her 
Sunday  things  and  find  Prue.  Gershom  lingered  a 
little,  and  then  his  firm  quarter-deck  tread  was  heard 
across  the  platform  and  down  the  rocky  path  toward 
the  great  barn. 

Sarah  Gair  was  left  alone. 

She  sat  there  in  helpless  pain ;  a  pain  of  body,  and 
an  ache  and  shame  and  confusion  of  soul.  She  knew, 
by  that  shame  and  confusion,  that  the  love  she  had 
called  sisterly,  when  she  had  looked  at  it  to  call  it 
anything,  was  more  and  different.  She  had  "grown 
up  with  him  in  her  very  heart ;  "  no  love  now  could 
ever  come  closer.  Her  pride,  her  joy,  her  glory,  her 
claim  in  him,  —  she  had  never  felt  these,  she  knew 
she  never  should  feel  them,  for  any  other.  He  had 
held  the  place  in  her  thought,  in  her  dreams,  that  but 
one  can  truly  fill,  and  once,  for  any  woman,  whatever 
semblance  may  come  after.  His  approval  was  glad 
ness  ;  his  blame  was  suffering. 

And  he —  "liked  her;  had  always  liked  her;  "  that 
was  all. 

And  cousin  Wealthy  had  stood  and  pleaded  for  her ! 
Oh,  it  was  bitter  shame,  —  pain  unendurable ! 

Notwithstanding  those  saving  words,  —  that  hint  at 
brotherhood,  — what,  to  his  quick  apprehension,  his 
merciless  insight,  could  it  all  mean,  —  that  story  of 


404  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

Wealthy 's  own  love,  that  had  been  the  one  love  of  her 
life,  —  and  its  comparison  with  hers,  —  what  else  but 
this,  that  every  drop  in  her  veins  tingled  to  think  of? 

She  was  self-convicted.  She  could  never  shut  her 
eyes  to  it  again.  She  knew  now  what  she  had  meant 
to  do  in  cherishing  those  shreds  upstairs,  that  she  had 
rolled  together  and  hidden  away  in  the  deep  closet 
corner,  lest  any  one  should  meddle.  They  might  lie 
there,  now;  she  would  never  touch  them. 

"He  liked  her;  but  she  had  been  ill  brought  up.'' 
He  did  not  approve ;  he  pitied,  he  was  tolerant  of  her. 

She  had  not  suffered  all  that  was  set  for  her  to  bear, 
this  day. 

While  these  sensations,  that  were  hardly  thoughts, 
yet  rent  her,  in  her  helplessness,  a  sound  of  spoken 
words  reached  her  once  again. 

She  was  directly  under  Wealthy 's  bedroom  window. 
Against  it  inside  stood  the  bed.  Wealthy  approached, 
to  lay  her  bonnet  and  shawl  there ;  Say  knew  her  hab 
its,  and  understood  the  sound  of  every  movement.  At 
the  same  time  she  began  talking  to  Prue. 

"I  've  been  saying  something  to  that  boy  of  yours, 
that's  done  me  good.  He's  a  noble-hearted  fellow; 
but  there  's  other  hearts  in  the  world,  as  well  as  his; 
and  he  's  hard,  and  I  've  told  him  so." 

"He's  true,"  answered  the  mother.  "Truth  may 
be  hard  sometimes;  but  he  can't  help  that." 

"Yes,  he  can,"  persisted  Wealthy.  "Or,  if  he 
can't,  I  don't  know  but  I  'd  as  lieves  he  'd  lie  a  little, 
now  and  then!  He's  cruel  to  that  child.  In  his 
thoughts  and  in  his  ways." 

Say's  hands  flew  up  to  stop  her  ears  from  further 
listening.  She  could  not  get  up  and  go  into  the 
house.  She  could  not  stay  there  now.  She  must 
steal  awav  presently,  when  they  were  out  of  hearing, 
and  go  home ;  and  they  must  never  know  that  she  had 


LIFE'S  WORD.  405 

been  there.  She  lifted  her  hands  to  the  two  sides  of 
her  head.  But  she  had  no  power  to  fasten  them 
there.  Words  came  that  compelled  her  to  hear  on. 
One  may  refrain  from  deliberate  hearkening  to  what 
is  not  meant  for  one's  knowledge;  but  there  is  a  mo 
mentary  incapacity  to  resist  what  comes  to  one,  un 
sought,  seizing  one's  very  life,  and  piercing  it,  as  this 
did  Say's. 

"I  suppose  I  might  be  half  an  hour  pretending  to 
try  and  find  out  what  you  mean,  Wealthy  Hoogs, " 
said  Prudence  Vorse,  in  her  strong  tones.  "But  that 
is  n't  my  way.  I  see  it  plain  enough.  As  plain  as 
you  do.  And  to  that,  there  's  just  one  answer,  in  his 
mind  and  mine  too.  She  's  Jane  Gair's  child." 

"She's  a  Gayworthy." 

"The  best  blood  may  be  spoilt  by  a  bad  cross. 
She's  a  Symonds;  Hannah  Symonds's  grandchild; 
and  the  mother  's  clear  Symonds,  without  the  first  re 
deeming  particle !  " 

"I  don't  think  much  of  Jane,  myself;  but  you're 
very  hard,  Prue." 

"I  might  be  harder.  If  I  called  that  woman  to  a 
strict  account." 

"Doubtful  undertaking.      She  's  a  manager." 

"  Yes, "  returned  Prue,  with  a  peculiar  deliberation 
and  quietness.  "She  's  a  manager.  She  's  managed 
my  boy  out  of  his  home  and  away  from  me.  By  a  lie, 
and  a  hiding.  She  's  managed  him  into  a  rough,  dan 
gerous,  distasteful  life.  She  managed  her  good  father 
into  his  grave.  And  —  what  with  prying,  and  poking, 
and  concealing  —  it 's  my  belief  she  's  managed  more. 
It  wouldn't  want  much  ferreting,  maybe,  to  find  the 
rights  of  it.  But  I  shan't  take  up  the  job.  I  '11 
leave  her  sin  to  find  her  out." 

"You  never  speak  without  a  reason,  Prue.  And 
yet  you  never  spoke  of  this  before." 


406  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

"I  haven't  been  touched  so  near  the  quick  before. 
It  is  n't  a  thing  that  '11  be  ever  made  plain  in  this 
world,  most  likely;  but  if  that  woman  had  a  clear, 
honest  mind  when  her  father  lay  a-dying,  and  that 
day  afterward  when  we  all  sat  together,  while  Reuben 
Gair  looked  over  the  papers  that  nobody  ever  touched 
—  rightly  —  before,  but  the  doctor,  and  read  that 
will,  —  why,  then  an  angel  of  heaven  might  wear 
Satan's  own  colors,  — that 's  all!  " 

"  These  are  hard  things,  —  hard  things,  Prue, " 
Wealthy  repeated.  "And  it  was  a  hard  time  to  judge 
her." 

"She  went  round  with  a  hard  face,  Wealthy,  all 
those  days.  There  was  nothing  soft  or  grieving ;  anx 
ious  enough,  —  too  anxious  looking ;  in  a  strange,  ab 
sent  kind  of  a  way,  a  sort  of  still  flurry,  as  if  she  'd 
something  on  her  mind.  Her  father  had  a  talk  with 
her:  and  what  it  was  lies  between  her  and  the  dead. 
/  know  she  kept  back  something.  And  before  Reuben 
laid  his  finger  on  the  will,  that  night,  she  started,  and 
her  look  changed.  She  knew  that  he  was  coming  to  it. 
And  she  knew  she  had  no  business  with  her  knowledge. 
She  's  false,  and  sly;  but  she  isn't  deep.  I  read  her 
face ;  and  it  was  the  face  of  one  who  should  never  be 
a  mother  to  my  boy !  " 

Say  put  her  hands  to  her  ears,  now,  in  an  agony. 
She  had  been  spellbound,  to  this  point ;  but  she  could 
hear  no  more.  The  impulse  that  would  have  been  a 
shriek  if  it  had  dared,  brought  her  to  her  feet,  with 
her  hands  held  tightly,  so,  against  her  head ;  and  she 
flew,  with  steps  noiseless,  though  headlong,  down  the 
hillside  path  that  opened  before  her,  between  the  pine- 
trees  toward  the  pond. 

To  get  away,  —  from  this  house  of  her  friends 
where  she  had  been  wounded,  —  to  escape  all  sight  of 
them,  —  to  reach,  somehow,  in  this  bewildering  pain 


LIFE'S  WOBD.  407 

that  held  her  more  and  more  fiercely  —  a  place  where 
she  could  rest,  and  be  alone ;  this  impelled  her  desper 
ately. 

She  followed  the  path  around  the  margin  of  the 
pond.  Through  the  perfumed  summer  woods;  along 
by  the  still,  plashing  water,  that  throbbed  up  upon  the 
pebbles ;  the  nameless  fragrance  drifting  over,  or  with 
it,  that  comes  upon  the  freshened  air  wherever  sweet 
water  flows ;  with  the  blue,  cloud-flecked  sky  bending 
down  and  repeating  itself  as  of  old;  all  this  was  as  it 
had  been  in  her  childhood,  when  in  these  things  lay 
sufficient  joy ;  and  the  stricken  woman  passed  them  by. 

"Elected!  Elected!"  The  word  kept  ringing  it 
self  over  to  her  inward  ear.  Now,  she  was  beginning 
to  know  to  what.  To  this  and  to  no  other  thing.  Her 
pain  was  upon  her;  her  own  separate  allotment  that 
was  like  no  other  soul's  on  earth. 

Where  was  Gershom  Vorse  ? 

"I  like  Say;  I  have  always  liked  her;"  this  was 
the  most  he  had  had  to  say  to  Weal  thy 's  urgent,  un 
sparing  remonstrance.  He  said  it  quietly;  almost 
coldly ;  then  he  listened  without  a  word  to  all  the  rest 
she  had  to  say ;  took  in  silently  the  simple  pathos  of 
her  story  of  the  one  love  God  had  sent  into  her  life ; 
and  when  she  left  him,  turned  and  went  his  way. 

To  suffer  too.  In  his  strong,  terrible,  restrained, 
man's  way.  For  he  knew,  now,  likewise,  what  that 
"liking"  was;  something  grown  up  with  him  into  his 
forceful  nature,  as  Say's  thought  of  him  in  her  "very 
heart."  What  God  hath  joined  together,  man  may 
not  put  asunder. 

Man  will  try,  though.  Man  will  let  his  pride,  and 
prejudice,  and  hate,  stand  between  him  and  his  love, 
making  a  fight  of  it  all  his  life  long.  "I  will  never 
forgive  Aunt  Jane  for  this, "  had  been  his  uttered  re 
solve.  "I  will  not  believe  in  —  I  will  not  care  for 


408  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

—  Jane  Gair's  child,"  had  been  his  secret  unworded 
self-reiteration. 

He  stood  in  the  great,  open,  west  doorway  of 
cousin  Wealthy 's  barn.  He  lifted  his  arms  and  leaned 
them  upon  the  wooden  bar  across  it ;  holding  his  head 
down.  There  was  a  working  in  his  face.  It  would 
have  been  a  shedding  of  bitter  tears,  perhaps,  with  a 
woman ;  with  this  man,  it  was  a  swelling  of  every  vein ; 
a  drawing  of  every  cord ;  a  red  streak  shooting  athwart 
the  eyeball ;  a  setting  the  firm  teeth  tight  together. 

"  This,  too,  my  enemy  has  done !  "  was  the  feeling 
in  him.  "All  the  rest  was  not  enough,  but  I  must 
feel  her  even  here !  I  must  love ;  and  it  must  be  her 
child!  I  was  content  to  go  through  the  world  un- 
trusting,  expecting  nothing,  when  she  had  killed  my 
boy- trust,  and  sent  me  out  among  the  hard,  hateful 
things  of  life ;  but  I  must  bear  this,  after  all !  I  must 
love  that  child  and  long  for  her ;  for  her  who  has  that 
lying  blood  in  her  veins ;  whom  I  will  not  take  to  my 
bosom ;  whom,  if  I  would,  I  have  been  set  apart  from 
forever,  in  my  coarse,  mean,  struggling  life.  A  poor 
sailor,  — son  of  a  widow;  and  she  the  rich  merchant's 
only  child !  This,  too,  my  enemy  has  done !  I  have 
fought  against  it  without  looking  at  it ;  now  I  must 
grapple  it  face  to  face.  'She  sets  by  you  as  she  does 
by  her  life.'  Why  did  Wealthy  say  that?  Why  did 
my  head  whirl  when  she  said  it  ?  '  Slighting  and  fault 
finding  ;  watching  and  carping ;  '  yes,  I  have  done  all 
that ;  I  would  never  let  myself  see  how  I  loved  her. 
Thank  God  I  never  let  her  see!  Now  I  've  got  this 
thing  to  do ;  to  get  through  the  world  with  this  wind 
in  my  teeth ;  to  set  my  face  against  it  and  take  it ! 
OSay!  Say!" 

The  proud,  stern,  distrustful  spirit  groaned  out  its 
anguish  in  one  deep,  half -smothered  moan. 

Then  he  gathered  himself  up  and  strode  away;   as 


LIFE'S  WOED.  409 

men  stride,  when  they  would  hurry  away  from  a  pas 
sion. 

Down  over  the  rocks,  into  the  deep  woods ;  parallel 
to  the  very  way  Say  was  taking ;  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
of  underbrush  between  them ;  God  knows  what  impass- 
ableness  between  their  two,  suffering  hearts ! 

An  hour  after,  Say  lay  upon  her  bed  in  the  red 
room;  the  curtains  drawn,  and  both  doors  bolted. 
She  cried  out  all  her  tears;  she  spent  herself  in  an 
ecstasy  of  shame  and  misery ;  then,  at  last,  she  sobbed, 
slow  and  gently,  with  a  self-pitiful  heart-break. 

"He  will  know  me  better,  some  time,  in  heaven, 
maybe.  And  perhaps  God  will  let  me  live  to  do  some 
thing  true  and  generous  by  him,  yet,  in  this  world. 
Something  to  make  up,  — oh,  if  I  knew!  O  mo 
ther  !  mother !  " 

When  Rebecca  came  home,  hastening  directly,  when 
she  learned  Say  had  not  been  at  Wealthy 's,  she  found 
the  doors  fast  and  the  room  silent.  The  child  had 
fallen  asleep.  Rebecca  went  away  and  waited.  By 
and  by  she  tried  again.  Still  fast ;  no  sound.  She 
went  round  through  what  had  been  her  father's  room, 
and  pushed  away,  there,  a  chest  of  drawers  that  stood 
against  a  rarely  used  door.  It  opened  into  the  narrow 
closet,  running  between  this  and  the  red  room.  By 
this  way  she  entered,  quietly,  and  went  and  drew  the 
curtain  softly  aside  from  the  bed.  There  was  a  crim 
son  face,  and  tangled  hair,  upon  the  pillows;  the 
chamber  hot  and  close.  Rebecca  flung  the  curtains 
wide,  unlocked  the  entry  door  and  set  it  open ;  then 
lifted  the  opposite  window  and  threw  back  the  blinds. 

The  air,  the  movement,  wakened  Say.  She  turned, 
and  opened  two  swollen,  glassy,  feverish  eyes.  She 
lifted  herself  suddenly  to  her  elbow,  and  glanced 
round,  as  if  bewildered. 

"Oh,"  she  exclaimed  faintly,    with  a  half-remem- 


410  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

brance.  "  I  came  home.  My  —  election  —  O  Auntie  J 
my  —  head,  I  mean,  — was  so  bad.  I  could  n't  stop. 
I  came  round  by  the  pond." 

She  shivered  a  little,  in  the  draught  of  the  fresh  air. 
Her  eyes  looked  vague  and  troubled. 

"Would  you  just  —  fold  up  —  that  tombstone? 
Oh  dear,  what  ails  me  ?  Shut  it  up  —  the  door  —  I 
mean. " 

Say  was  in  the  first  stage  of  violent  fever. 

All  through  the  beautiful  July  days,  when  the  hay 
makers  were  in  the  fields ;  through  the  calm,  starry 
nights,  when  the  dew  was  rich  with  perfume ;  while 
all  over  the  hills  and  woods  was  the  gladness  of  the 
country  summer-time,  —  Say  lay  there,  suffering  in 
the  grasp  of  disease.  Her  father  and  her  mother  came 
to  Hilbury.  Jane  Gair  was  forced  to  it,  now,  and 
only  her  own  heart  and  conscience  could  tell  the 
scourge  of  punishment  that  mingled  secretly  with  her 
natural  pain.  Ned  Blackmere  said,  when  they  talked 
of  Say's  illness,  "She  '11  die.  She  's  one  of  the  real 
ones,  and  they  go  to  heaven."  Gershom  Vorse  kept 
his  misery  within  himself,  saying  and  asking  little; 
but  they  knew,  daily  and  nightly,  at  the  hill-farm, 
how  it  was  at  the  homestead;  for  Blackmere  took  it 
upon  himself  to  go  to  and  fro,  bearing  the  tidings ;  and 
a  letter  that  came  from  Selport,  offering  Gershom 
command  of  a  brig  upon  an  African  voyage,  to  sail 
at  four  days'  notice,  was  quietly  answered,  destroyed, 
and  never  spoken  of.  He  waited. 

Three  Mreeks  of  fevered  pain  and  clouded  conscious 
ness,  and  then  the  tide  turned,  tremblingly,  almost 
imperceptibly,  toward  life  again. 

Mr.  Gair  went  back  to  his  business.  Jane  was  in 
a  hurry,  as  soon  as  Say  could  bear  it,  to  get  her  to 
the  seashore;  Gershom  Vorse  went  down  to  Selport, 
and  got  a  berth  for  himself  and  Blackmere ;  taking  a 


LIFE'S  WORD.  411 

voyage  to  Cronstadt.  Say  sat  in  the  great  easy- 
chair,  or  lay  tired  and  feeble  on  her  bed ;  and  let  her 
life  come  slowly  back  to  her.  A  comfort  came,  also ; 
came  with  the  one  word  that  had  been  given  her  for 
a  purpose,  — that  had  rung  in  her  memory  through 
the  first  bewilderment  of  her  brain,  -  -  "elected,  — 
elected !  "  She  could  bear  what  she  had  been  chosen 
to  bear.  With  this  grain  of  mustard-seed,  the  whole 
kingdom  came  to  bloom  in  her  soul.  It  was  the  first 
childlike  creeping  close  into  the  bosom  of  the  Father. 
She  had  known  that  He  was;  she  had  believed  his 
truth  given  to  the  world,  and  taught  her  through  oth 
ers.  Now,  she  found  Him,  felt  Him,  as  she  never 
had  before.  She  was  "as  one  whom  his  mother  com- 
f orteth. "  Her  bodily  state  helped  this ;  with  exhaus 
tion  comes  a  peace ;  it  is  when  we  are  strong  that  we 
can  suffer  keenest. 

Gershom  came  to  say  good-by. 

"  Shall  I  let  him  come  up  ?  "  said  Aunt  Joanna. 
"Are  you  well  enough,  to-day?  " 

A  pink  tinge  came  to  the  pale  face.  She  caught 
her  breath  a  little  quickly;  then  she  said  quietly, 
"Yes." 

This,  also,  she  must  bear. 

There  was  no  disdain  of  her  pretty  daintiness,  now. 
Gershom 's  face  was  very  gentle  as  he  approached  her, 
sitting  there  in  the  warm,  open  window,  with  roses  on 
the  sill,  and  some  especially  sweet,  late  buds  lying  on 
the  lap  of  her  white-frilled  wrapper,  contrasting  deli 
cately  in  their  pink  and  green  with  the  soft,  pure  mus 
lin.  The  offending  little  foot  was  thrust  out,  too, 
unconsciously,  upon  its  cushion,  slippered  with  blue 
and  golden-brown,  in  embroidery  of  silk  and  satiny 
kid ;  but  he  saw  only  the  kind,  calm  eyes  that  looked 
up,  meeting  his,  and  the  white  hand,  grown  so  slender, 
that  reached  itself  out  toward  him. 


412  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

There  was  a  change  in  her  beside  the  changes  of  her 
illness. 

There  was  a  quietude,  a  repose,  that  was  not  all 
of  feebleness.  She  recognized  it  in  herself.  She  would 
never  be  abashed  at  him  again;  she  would  never  be  in 
a  flurry  lest  she  should  displease  him ;  all  that  was  laid 
at  rest.  She  had  faced  the  truth;  she  had  borne  its 
life-thrust;  and  the  touch  of  truth  had  set  her  free. 
She  knew  now  what  lay  between  them.  She  thought 
she  knew  what  he  had  given  her;  a  "liking"  merely, 
and  a  sort  of  pity.  He  should  give  her  more,  —  re 
spect. 

"You've  had  a  hard  time,  Say,"  he  said,  as  he 
came  and  stood  beside  her. 

"But  it  is  very  pleasant  getting  well." 

It  seemed  to  the  stout  sailor,  looking  at  her  as  she 
sat  there,  that  the  getting  well  had  not  been  very 
rapid.  . 

"Blackmere  sent  you  these."  A  basket  of  moun 
tain  raspberries,  that  Gershom  held  in  his  left  hand. 

"Mr.  Blackmere  is  very  kind.  Tell  him,  please, 
how  much  I  thank  him." 

"You  've  won  him  over,  however  you  managed  it," 
said  Gershom  lightly.  It  was  hard  for  him,  this  meet 
ing  and  this  good-by;  he  must  get  through  it  as  he 
could. 

A  little  touch  upon  the  secret  misery  made  Say 
wince. 

"I  don't  manage,"  she  said  with  emphasis.  "I  'm 
glad  if  he  likes  me.  I  like  him  very  much.  He  's  a 
good,  brave,  generous  man.  And  "  —  She  stopped. 
She  had  been  very  near  saying,  with  the  old  impulse, 
"And  he  's  your  friend,  Gershie." 

"And  —  what?  "  said  Captain  Vorse. 

"I  should  know  it  from  what  you  think  of  him,  if 
I  couldn't  see  it  myself.  You're  hard  to  please, 
you  know,  Gershom." 


LIFE'S  WORD.  '413 

"Am  I  ?  I  've  had  hard  luck,  sometimes, "  the  sailor 
answered. 

This  was  coming  closer,  though,  than  either  wished. 

"I  'm  glad  you  're  better,  Say.  And  I  'm  glad  to 
know  it  before  I  go.  I  've  come  to  say  good-by.  I  'm 
going  up  the  Baltic." 

Say  spoke  not  a  word.  She  knew  that,  parting  now, 
they  were  to  part  for  years,  — for  all,  perhaps.  She 
knew  it  would  be  long  before  she  should  have  another 
summer  in  Hilbury ;  their  chances  might  never  coincide 
again;  and  Gershom  never  came  to  Hill  Street.  She 
could  no  longer  wonder  why,  or  ask  it  of  him. 

All  this  was  best  so.      Still,  she  could  not  speak. 

"You  look  very  sober,  Say.  Give  me  one  of  your 
good  words,  to  go  with."  He  spoke  with  that  forced 
lightness,  still;  the  strong  man's  pain  clutching  secretly 
at  his  heart,  also. 

Then  Say  looked  up.  She  had  a  word  for  him.  A 
word  she  had  thought  to  send  him  if  she  should  be 
going  to  die,  when  she  came  out  of  that  confusion  and 
wandering  into  the  consciousness  that  life  hung  trem 
bling  and  uncertain;  when  she  knew  as  well  as  those 
around  her  that  the  last  might  soon  come ;  when  she 
read  her  mother's  look,  that  bent  over  her  in  an  agony; 
when  her  father's  presence  at  her  bedside  told  the  why; 
when  she  saw  in  the  tender,  wistful,  saddened  eyes  of 
the  kind  aunts  their  fear  for  her;  when  her  life,  and 
all  the  love  and  hope  and  pain  of  it  lay  on  one  side, 
and  Death  stood  waiting,  close,  upon  the  other;  and 
in  the  twilight  between  the  worlds  she  saw  things  as 
they  only  see  them  who  go  down  into  the  very  shadow 
of  the  sunless  gloom  and  stand  with  feet  in  the  very 
wave-break  of  the  dark  sea,  and  thence  —  look  back 
ward  ! 

She  had  a  word  for  him.  She  would  give  it,  now. 
A  brightness  came  into  her  face,  an  earnest  self-forget- 
fulness.  She  put  her  hand  out  again,  and  he  took  it. 


414*  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

"God  was  in  the  pain,  also,  Gershom!  " 

He  knew  in  his  soul  that  she  was  pure  and  true. 
He  knew  in  his  soul  that  he  loved  her.  He  knew  that 
his  very  hold  upon  heaven  lay  with  her.  A  strange 
look  glowed  in  his  eyes  for  a  moment  as  he  stood  over 
her,  her  hand  in  his.  That  which  was  in  him  stirred 
mightily,  and  trembled  on  the  breath  of  an  avowal. 

Then  there  came  steps  upon  the  stairs  and  a  voice. 
Aunt  Jane's. 

His  secret  went  back  into  his  soul  again. 

They  said  good-by,  and  he  went  away. 

Threads  cross,  and  break,  and  entangle ;  the  pattern 
runs  awry.  But  God's  Eye  is  over  the  loom;  his 
Finger  is  upon  the  wheels ! 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

DRIFTING    APART. 

IT  began  to  come  to  her  now.  Now  that  she  no 
longer  cared  for  it,  or  distressed  herself  for  the  want 
of  it.  Now  that  the  smile  or  stare  of  these  fashion 
able  girls  or  their  mothers  differed  little  to  her ;  now 
that  even  Jane  Gair,  in  her  real  solicitude,  had  forgot 
ten  for  a  while  her  petty  fussiness  and  obtrusive  ambi 
tion,  —  it  all  began,  with  the  waywardness  of  things 
striven  for  and  given  up,  to  come,  in  a  degree,  of  its 
own  accord. 

They  were  at  the  seashore  until  October.  Mr.  Gair 
brought  his  carriage  down  from  the  city.  What  he 
had  refused  to  do  for  display,  — taking  his  sensible 
business  view  of  things,  —  he  did  for  the  comfort  of  his 
child.  Say  had  her  own  way  now;  and  Mrs.  Gair's 
great  object  was  her  daughter's  health.  So  they  were 
simple  and  straightforward,  minding  their  own  busi 
ness  for  a  while.  And  people  who  would  not  have 
perceived  them,  arrayed  elaborately  and  presenting 
themselves,  as  had  been  Jane's  fashion,  without  appar 
ent  immediate  object  other  than  expressed  by  that 
unmistakable  air  of  "Here  I  am,"  in  the  piazzas 
and  drawing-rooms ;  who  gave  short,  surprised,  civil 
answers  to  her  overtures  at  conversation,  and  turned 
away ;  who  had  kept  her,  in  short,  behind  their  elbows 
always;  these  people  began  to  glance  after  the  pale 
girl  and  her  mother  now,  with  a  certain  interest ;  had 
a  word  of  inquiry  when  they  met  them  in  the  door 
way,  just  alighted  from  their  drive;  a  word  and  a 
smile  even,  when  they  encountered  upon  the  beach. 


416  THE  GAYWOBTHYS. 

Mrs.  Topliff  discerned  through  her  eyeglasses,  "that 
there  was  something  really  quite  distinguished  about 
that  Miss  Gair;  the  mother  was  common  enough,  no 
doubt,  but  the  girl's  face  and  air  were  positively  strik 
ing."  It  was  simply  that  Say's  face  wore  its  own 
quiet  look  of  thought  and  preoccupation,  now;  she  had 
a  life  to  live  of  her  own ;  a  life  that  took  her  strength 
to  do  it;  she  had  no  seeking,  distraite  expression  of 
one  trying,  as  she  had  said,  "to  get  into  other  people's 
lives."  And  her  natural  elegance  sat  on  her,  so,  un 
consciously. 

Mrs.  Topliff  had  a  comfortable  sheltered  seat  beside 
herself,  now  and  then,  when  the  girl  came  out,  at  sun 
set,  to  the  piazza.  Room  for  one  only,  and  she  would 
patronizingly  beckon  Say;  Mrs.  Gair  found  a  place  as 
she  pleased,  for  herself.  Mrs.  Topliff  drove  an  open 
English  brett ;  one  fine  September  day  she  offered  Say 
a  seat  in  it;  took  excellent  care  of  her  during  the 
drive,  and  even  remarked  with  a  polite  kindness,  to 
the  eager  mother,  meeting  them  on  the  steps  at  their 
return,  proud  to  claim  her  daughter  out  of  the  stylish 
lady's  carriage  in  the  eyes  of  all  the  standers-by,  that 
"Miss  Gair  had  got  a  little  color  in  her  cheeks." 
Whereon  Jane  went  into  an  ecstasy  of  profuse  thanks 
and  familiar  volubility;  taking  her  ell  in  a  great 
hurry,  where  but  the  brief  inch  had  been  accorded. 
Mrs.  Topliff  cut  her  very  short,  in  a  twinkling;  had  a 
sudden  word  for  her  coachman ;  and  Jane  was  behind 
her  elbow  again,  before  she  quite  guessed  at  it;  alone, 
presently,  midway  down  the  steps. 

She  was  used  to  it ;  she  was  thankful  for  the  little 
she  got ;  to  this  abjectness  had  she  come,  —  this  abso 
lute  vulgarity  of  soul,  through  patient  truckling  to  the 
vulgar  airs  of  those  whom  she  mistakenly  believed  to 
be  great  people. 

There    was  a    quiet   room  on   the  same  floor   with 


DRIFTING  APART.  417 

themselves,  into  which  Say  was  sometimes  invited, 
where  she  felt  herself  in  an  atmosphere  of  truer  ele 
gance  and  refinement  than  within  the  charmed  circle 
of  the  "Topliff  set,"  when  they  sanctified,  for  a  brief 
half  hour,  a  certain  piazza  corner,  —  mere  boards  and 
railing,  when  the  spell  was  off,  and  open  to  any  com 
mon  comer,  —  or  than  even  tucked  cosily  between  the 
sumptuous  cushions  and  blankets  of  the  brett,  driving 
tete-a-tete  with  its  august  owner. 

It  was  the  room  of  an  elderly  lady,  a  widow,  and 
her  maiden  sister;  persons  necessarily  not  of  the  gay 
set,  but  indisputably  above  the  prevailing  tone  of  it, 
and  deferred  to,  in  position,  by  people  of  that  or  of 
any  set  whatever.  There  are  individuals  like  these, 
who  make  their  own  genus.  Say  was  happier  here, 
among  their  books  and  pictures,  their  gatherings  of 
leaves  and  flowers,  and  stones  and  shells,  than  she 
could  be  anywhere  now,  since  Hilbury  was  done  with. 

It  was  literally  the  creme  de  la  creme  who  had 
the  privilege  of  this  parlor.  "Topsy"  people;  people 
who  "growed;"  who  moved  in  and  out  among  those 
below;  whose  place  was  where  they  chose  it,  but  who 
showed  their  true  metal  only  when  rung  against  like 
coin.  People  who  drew  out  Say's  best;  helped  her  to 
ideas  and  facts;  enlarged  the  world  to  her,  material 
and  human.  Among  them  she  learned  one  thing  that 
much  of  her  former  experience  had  tended  to  give  her 
doubt  of:  that  people  may  be  true  and  yet  genial; 
that  the  polite  world  is  not  all  sham.  She  thought 
of  Gershom  Vorse  in  these  days ;  she  wished  he  might 
be  here ;  she  felt  it  hard  for  him  that  life  should  give 
him  nothing  better  than  it  did;  she  remembered  with 
a  clutching  pain  and  shame  at  her  heart,  the  terrible 
words  of  Aunt  Prue,  "she  has  managed  him  out  of 
his  home  and  away  from  me;  she  has  managed  him 
into  a  hard,  dangerous,  distasteful  life;  "  she —  Say's 


418  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

mother!  Ah,  she  could  only  be  half  happy,  ever 
again ! 

The  way  was  opened  for  her  into  a  wider  life  after 
her  return  to  the  city.  This  winter  was  not  just  like 
the  other  winters  she  had  known.  She  was  intimate, 
still,  at  Mrs.  Gorham's;  people  met  her  there  who  had 
passed  her  by  in  general  society,  where  they  had  seen 
her  tricked  out  like  scores  of  other  girls,  to  be  looked 
at,  and  wearing  the  tell-tale  expression  on  her  un- 
feigning  face,  of  a  vain  anxiety,  a  mortified  weariness. 
They  saw  her  differently;  she  was  different.  She  be 
gan  to  have  friends.  She  was  asked  to  new  places. 
She  ceased  to  be  slighted,  or  half-noticed,  anywhere. 
Mrs.  Topliff  could  neither  snub  nor  patronize  where 
the  Gorhams  and  the  Grays  quietly  acknowledged. 
Say  "had  things  real,"  now;  these  things,  the  outside 
appearance  of  which  she  cared  not  for.  Mrs.  Gair 
was  beatified.  They  were  wheeled  slowly  into  the 
system.  They  had  begun  actually  to  revolve. 

Say  entered  into  this  more  positive  life  of  society, 
into  these  very  best  things  of  it  that  met  her  need 
most  pertinently,  with  a  certain  secret  reluctance.  It 
would  separate  her  from  the  old  life.  That  would  lie 
back  in  the  past ;  a  thing  left  behind  and  done  with. 
She  should  change;  she  felt  herself  changing.  She 
should  have  new  faiths,  new  interests.  And  her  child- 
friend  —  her  brother,  —  this  was  what  she  called  him 
still,  — •  with  his  nobleness,  his  hatred  of  shams  and 
shows,  his  manly  grappling  with  the  life  he  had  been 
set  to  live  —  would  be  going  such  a  different  way ! 
She  got  a  glimpse  in  this,  her  larger  intercourse,  of 
things  he  might  have  done,  as  he  himself  had  got  it 
years  ago,  when  it  was  too  late.  She  heard  grand 
words  spoken  for  human  right ;  she  learned  what  true, 
loyal-hearted  men,  with  power,  and  education,  and 
opportunity,  were  doing  in  the  world.  She  saw  a 


DRIFTING  APAET.  419 

place  he  might  have  filled ;  where  his  stern  justice,  his 
heaven-clear  honesty,  his  searching  insight  into  motive 
and  meaning,  should  have  had  their  work.  And  he 
was  away,  and  out  of  it  all!  Never  seeing  the  good 
that  she  saw;  weaning  himself  more  and  more  from 
human  fellowship,  while  she  was  drawing  it  more 
closely  and  kindly  about  her.  It  was  not  fair.  She 
owed  him  something  other  than  this.  It  was  a  debt; 
she  was  secretly  bound  to  watch  for  opportunity  to 
right  him ;  to  this  end  to  hold  herself  still  in  the  line 
of  possibilities  concerning  him. 

This  one  binding  motive  held  her  back  from  many 
things  that  might  else  have  happened.  Happened  very 
naturally,  whatever  you  may  think  I  should  make  so 
of  her  constancy. 

Gershom  Vorse  had  been  to  her  the  ideal  of  man's 
nobleness.  Of  a  truth  that  scorned  disguise;  of  an 
earnestness  that  searched  through  all  things  even  to 
unsatisfaction  and  skepticism ;  of  a  plain,  sincere  speech 
and  bearing  that  were  better  than  polite  grace ;  of  a 
bravery  put  to  tests  safe  people  never  dreamed  of;  of 
a  power  and  intelligence  that  gave  lustre  to  the  rough 
profession  he  had  chosen,  and  made  ^their  opportunities, 
instead  of  yielding  to  and  being  obscured  by  circum 
stance.  All  this  she  honored,  loved  in  him;  longed 
that  it  should  recognize  its  like  in  her ;  suffered  that  it 
misunderstood  her;  bore  the  bitter  crisis  of  pain  and 
shame  at  finding  fully  for  the  first  time  how  she  had 
loved  and  honored ;  how  feebly  she  had  been  appre 
hended  and  requited. 

But  people  do  not  go  on  and  live  in  crises ;  things  sub 
side  again ;  life  calms  itself,  and  takes  up  what  is  left. 

Sarah  Gair  might  even  have  married.  Then  her 
life  would  have  branched  away,  and  separated  itself 
utterly  from  this  old  life  that  she  clung  to,  —  that  was 
sacred  to  her,  —  wherein  she  had  a  solemn,  secret  duty. 


420  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

grown  from  and  joined  to  a  strange  remorse  and  shame 
that  were  for  no  doing  of  her  own;  for  no  positive  do 
ing  that  she  knew  or  might  ever  come  to  know;  but 
that  she  must  wait  to  comprehend  and  remedy.  This 
task  of  honor  held  her  back,  when  other  things  might 
have  lured  and  led  her  on. 

She  had  learned  by  a  sudden  storm-flash  what  Ger- 
shom  Vorse  had  truly  been  to  her.  She  had  learned 
by  the  same  flash  that  he  could  be  little  to  her  ever 
again,  even,  perhaps,  in  brotherliness.  This  pang  she 
bore;  it  crushed  her  down  for  the  moment,  but  she 
lived  through  it ;  and  life,  like  the  water-brooks,  creeps 
under  wreck  and  obstruction  to  find  for  itself  new  chan 
nels.  You  cannot  help  it,  young  dreamer  of  romance; 
it  is  your  life  also,  and  the  very  nature  of  it. 

Say  might  even  have  married.  She  had  men  friends 
also  in  the  sphere  of  her  new  companionships,  —  men 
of  culture  and  of  grace.  She  saw  that  there  could  be 
nobleness  that  was  always  gentle ;  that  it  was  possible, 
even  for  her,  with  her  mistakes  and  girlish  weaknesses, 
to  be  borne  with,  and  counseled  tenderly,  and  cherished ; 
she  who  had  been  so  little  used  to  this ! 

My  story  will  be  long  enough  without  it ;  since  she 
did  not  marry  him,  I  shall  tell  you  little  of  a  certain 
Dr.  Robert  Gorham  but  his  name,  and  his  kindness 
to  her  this  first  winter  of  her  actual,  tried,  woman- 
life  ;  and  that,  before  the  winter  ended,  he  made  man 
ifest  that  he  would  willingly  give  her  help  and  cherish 
ing  through  all  the  winters  and  the  summers  that  they 
two  might  have  to  live. 

It  was  not  the  old  love  only  that  withheld  her.  Old 
love  sleeps,  if  it  do  not  die.  It  has,  too,  its  reactions, 
when  it  contrasts  itself,  and  its  pains,  and  its  unrequital, 
and  the  injustice  it  has  borne,  perhaps,  with  what 
might  be,  with  what  offers  itself.  There  are  moments 
when,  with  a  breath  refused  it  in  this  sleep,  it  might 


.  DRIFTING  APART.  421 

pass  away  and  be  no  more ;  when  a  slight  added  im 
pulse  given  the  reaction,  it  might  fix  itself  beyond  the 
point  of  possible  return.  It  was  not  the  old  love  only ; 
it  was  that  she  felt  vaguely  in  the  future  a  something 
waiting  for  her  to  do,  for  which  she  must  reserve  and 
hold  herself  free.  That  which  she  had  prayed  for  in 
her  trouble,  and  soothed  herself  with  thinking  God 
would  give  her;  something  generous  and  true  to  do  by 
Gershom  Vorse.  Something,  she  knew  not  what,  that 
was  owed  him  honestly.  Something  she  trembled  to 
imagine  and  shrunk  from  beforehand,  but  which  time 
and  the  leading  of  Providence  should  make  clear. 
Gershom  Vorse  should  respect  her,  should  think  well 
of  her,  should  know  that  she  could  neither  lie  nor  hide. 
She  would  rather  wait  for  this  than  take  even  the 
gentle  love  that  was  ready  for  her.  Something,  truly, 
was  strong  upon  her,  earnest  as  life,  drawing  her  surely 
to  itself  like  death! 

In  the  summer  of  the  next  year  they  went  to  Europe, 
Say,  her  father,  and  her  mother.  Dear  old  Hilbury 
was  far  behind.  The  world  broadened  out  about  her. 
She  saw,  and  learned,  and  enjoyed,  and  was  strength 
ened.  Still  she  remembered.  Still,  in  the  sea-storm 
or  glory,  in  the  strange  lands,  the  farther  she  drifted 
out  of  the  old  years  and  places,  the  deeper  lay  her 
thought  and  memory  of  him  who  was  a  wanderer  also, 
not  for  pleasure  but  for  toil;  whose  life,  while  hers 
was  sweetening  and  ripening,  might  be  shriveling,  and 
hardening,  and  growing  bitter,  still;  who,  doubting 
earth,  might  also  be  doubting  God  and  heaven !  He 
had  been  hard  upon  her ;  he  had  thrust  aside  what  she 
would  have  given ;  for  that,  she  could  have  found  it 
in  her  to  be  proud,  resentful ;  but  he  had  been 
wronged ;  she  blamed,  —  she  pitied,  —  she  was  tender 
of  him  in  her  heart ;  above  all,  she  kept  her  thought 
of  him  alive,  longing  for  the  hour  to  come,  which 
should  coma. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

A  BIRTHDAY;  AND  WHAT  IT  BROUGHT. 

JOANNA  GAYWORTHY  rose  up  one  bright,  early 
autumn  morning  (it  was  a  year  from  that  time  when 
Say  had  left  them,  after  her  illness,  and  at  the  end 
of  the  same  summer  in  which  she  had  gone  abroad) 
with  a  wonderful  blithe  feeling  at  her  heart.  Some 
thing,  —  whether  it  were  the  crisp  hill- breeze,  bearing 
its  ripened  odors  of  orchard  and  forest,  or  the  redun 
dant  golden  sunshine,  that  itself  seemed  to  have  a 
crispness  in  it,  or  a  happy  physical  harmony  in  herself, 
or  an  untraced  association  with  some  old  happiness,  — 
something,  touching  her  subtly  through  every  sense, 
carried  her  back  to  the  feeling  of  her  childhood; 
quickened  suddenly  within  her  its  spirit  of  confident 
expectation,  its  perception  of  an  infinite  possibility  in 
life,  that  every  morning  had  used  to  renew  itself  in  a 
rich,  glad  wonder  of  what  this  day  should  bring. 
This  wonder  stirred  within  her  strangely,  now ;  it  was 
as  if  this  day  should  not  be  quite  like  all  others,  for 
her;  as  if,  somewhere  in  its  breadth  of  brightness,  in 
its  atmosphere  of  joy,  lay  a  special  gift  for  her.  A 
gift!  She  remembered.  It  was  the  gift  of  an  added 
year.  It  was  her  birthday.  She  was  five  and  thirty 
to-day.  Was  that  it  ?  Was  that  a  thing  for  a  wo 
man  to  feel  blithe  about?  To-day,  she  turned  her 
back  upon  her  youth;  it  was  all  behind  her  now;  she 
set  her  face,  of  compulsion,  downward  over  the  hill  of 
life ;  she  had  passed  the  crest ;  the  waters  flowed  the 
other  way ;  they  came  no  longer,  springing  from  sweet 
fountains,  to  meet  her;  they  ran  from,  and  outran 


A  BIRTHDAY;  AND  WHAT  IT  BROUGHT.    423 

her ;  she  might  not  choose ;  she  might  not  even  pause. 
Why  should  she  have  this  nameless  gladness  at  her 
heart  ? 

She  turned  to  her  glass,  and  tried  to  feel  herself 
old. 

"I've  got  a  gray  hair  somewhere;  saw  it  a  week 
ago;  I  am  old!  "  she  said  to  herself,  "and  yet,  I  feel 
to-day  like  a  child. " 

Everybody  told  Joanna  that  she  kept  her  youth; 
she  knew  it ;  she  felt  the  spring  of  it  within ;  she  won 
dered,  sometimes,  as  she  wondered  at  this  moment, 
how  it  was,  and  why.  It  seemed,  she  said  to  herself, 
as  if  a  freshness  in  her  had  been  kept  hermetically 
sealed,  waiting  for  something,  for  some  festival  time 
that  was  to  come.  Something  in  her  that  was  unful 
filled,  —  that  would  not  let  life  wholly  ripen,  —  that 
forbade  it  to  decay. 

"  September  —  October  —  November,  even.  What 
matter  is  it  which,  if  summer  weather  lasts  ?  I  am 
a  child."  She  had  turned,  now,  to  her  window  again, 
looking  out  with  pleasure  sweet  and  new,  and  forever 
young,  on  the  beautiful  hills  and  the  far-stooping  sky 
that  had  encircled  her  life  these  five  and  thirty  years. 
"  I  am  a  child,  still, "  she  said  with  an  exulting  defi 
ance.  "God's  child;  with  his  Eternity  before  me, 
and  the  good  in  it  that  I  have  been  waiting  for,  and 
coming  to  all  these  years,  that,  after  all,  are  no 
thing!  " 

Leaning  thus,  and  looking  out  with  this  recognized 
joy  that  had  been  but  a  nameless  impulse,  rooting 
itself  blessedly  in  her  heart,  and  growing  into  her  face 
as  real  joys  do.  she  saw  Gabriel  Hartshorne  come 
quickly  out  at  the  front  gate  of  the  farmhouse,  and 
turn  his  steps  up-hill. 

Every  sense  was  sharp  in  her,  to-day;  her  intui 
tions  keen,  to  grasp  things  drawing  near. 


424  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

"He  is  coming  here,"  she  said  to  herself.  "He 
wants  us.  Something  has  happened  there.  And  — 
yes  —  Mary  Makepeace  is  away." 

Mary  Makepeace  had  heen  gone  three  days  of  ten, 
that  Gabriel  had  given  her,  to  visit  her  old  home,  a 
stage- journey  of  a  day  and  a  half  eastward,  among  the 
hills.  It  would  take  three  days  to  get  her  back  again. 

Joanna  met  Gabriel  at  the  side  door.  His  face  was 
pale  and  his  manner  hurried. 

"My  father.  Something  is  wrong  with  him;  and 
I  've  nobody  there  but  Abby  and  Hiram.  Will  you 
come  down  ?  " 

"Yes,  Gabriel,  instantly."  Joanna's  face  was  ear 
nest  and  pale  as  his,  so  bright  as  it  had  been  a  mo 
ment  ago. 

Gabriel  turned  without  further  word,  and  walked 
quickly  down  toward  his  home  again.  Joanna  hast 
ened  into  the  house,  and  found  Rebecca.  The  two 
women  lifted  their  gingham  bonnets  from  the  entry 
pegs  and  followed. 

How  she  blessed  her  five  and  thirty  years,  in  that 
moment  when  her  thought  flashed  back  across  fifteen 
of  them,  recalling  the  hour  of  her  friend's  first,  bitter 
trouble ;  when  she  had  been  but  a  girl,  and  Prue,  the 
woman,  had  been  privileged  to  help  him !  How  her 
heart  sprang  with  half-acknowledged  selfishness  of  joy, 
feeling  that  there  was  none  nearer,  now,  than  she,  to 
give  him  aid  and  comfort !  She  claimed  this,  secretly, 
of  life,  claiming  no  more,  that,  stand  at  such  dis 
tance  as  they  might,  each  from  the  other,  none  should 
come  between !  So  she  was  satisfied.  Anything  else 
would  have  been  outrage.  She  knew  God  would  not 
let  it  be ! 

"I  'm  old,"  she  was  inwardly  saying,  in  the  midst 
of  her  real  pain  and  anxiety  for  Gabriel.  "I  've  got 
a  gray  hair,  somewhere.  I'm  thirty-five  to-day,  I 


A  BIRTHDAY;  AND  WHAT  IT  BROUGHT.    425 

can  be  his  friend!  I  can  help  him  always;  and  he 
will  be  sure  to  come  to  me.  That  was  enough  to  be 
glad  for!" 

They  went  in  at  the  open  farmhouse  door.  Ga 
briel  met  them  in  the  great  kitchen,  coming  out  of  his 
father's  bedroom. 

"I  must  go  to  the  Bridge,  myself.  Hiram  is  slow, 
and  blundering;  and  the  doctor  may  be  anywhere.  I 
shall  find  him,  and  come  back  as  soon  as  possible. 
Will  you  come  and  stay  with  him  ?  " 

They  followed  him  into  the  old  man's  room.  It 
was  easy  to  see  what  was  the  matter.  One  fallen  eye 
lid,  —  one  corner  of  the  mouth  drawn  down,  —  the 
soul  gone  out  of  one  half  of  him,  — he  lay  there, 
speechless  and  helpless. 

There  were  tears  in  the  women's  eyes,  as  they 
looked  at  him,  and  then  at  Gabriel.  Gabriel's  were 
sad,  but  clear  and  strong.  He  knew  that  the  end  was 
coming;  the  end  of  his  long,  faithful,  loving  work; 
the  end,  also,  of  all  darkness  and  feebleness  for  him 
who  had  dwelt  under  the  cloud  so  long. 

They  bathed,  and  chafed,  and  laid  warm  things 
about  him;  did  what  they  knew;  and  then  they  sat 
and  watched. 

In  three  quarters  of  an  hour,  Gabriel  came  back  with 
the  doctor. 

There  was  little  to  do.  It  might  be  a  question  of 
hours,  or  of  days ;  it  could  not  be  a  question  of  life  or 
death  for  long.  There  were  few  words  said  among 
them,  after  the  doctor  had  given  his  directions  and 
gone  away;  they  quietly  arranged  things,  or  things 
fell  naturally  into  arrangement,  after  the  necessity. 
One  must  go  home,  for  a  while;  one  would  stay. 
Joanna  took  with  silent  decision  her  right  of  prece 
dence  ;  was  she  not  the  elder  ?  Truly,  there  were  al 
most  three  years  between  these  two  women,  both  so 
well  past  thirty. 


426  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

Rebecca  went  home ;  she  would  come  again  by  and 
by.  Joanna  stayed,  watching  by  the  stricken  man, 
while  Gabriel  ate,  as  he  could,  his  delayed  breakfast ; 
then  she  owned  she  had  not  eaten  hers,  and  changed 
places  with  him,  seating  herself  at  his  board. 

It  was  strange ;  it  was  sad  and  solemn ;  but  it  was 
very  sweet ;  the  morning  joy  could  not  die  wholly  out 
of  her  heart ;  she  was  here  with  him ;  he  relied  upon 
her ;  she  was  more  to  him  than  any  other  woman  in 
the  world ;  this  was  the  birthday  gift  God  gave  to  her. 

Hiram  went  away  to  the  farm  work.  Abby  betook 
herself  to  kitchen  and  dairy.  These  two,  Gabriel  and 
Joanna,  were  left  to  their  watch. 

Soft,  womanly  touches  laid  all  things  tenderly 
straight  and  comfortable;  prompt,  quiet  hands  ad 
ministered  all  that  could  be  given  *  friendly  woman- 
eyes  met  the  man's,  warmly,  silently;  heart  and  soul 
were  very  near;  there  had  been  no  such  presence  in 
Gabriel's  home,  partaking  the  inner  life  of  it,  since 
the  mother  went  away.  Had  there  been,  ever? 
Should  there  be,  ever  again  ? 

Holiest  joy,  tenderest  grief,  touch  often.  If  there 
be  a  joy  left,  sorrow  magnetizes  it  to  a  counterpart 
depth  of  blessedness.  There  was  a  peace  in  Gabriel 
Hartshorne's  soul  beyond  where  pain  could  reach. 

The  warm  September  day  climbed  to  its  highest 
glory,  and  faded  down.  Down  to  a  still  gorgeous- 
ness,  gathered  among  the  western  hills.  Rebecca  was 
with  them,  now.  The  two  sisters  would  remain  in 
the  house  all  night.  Gabriel  would  not  let  them 
watch.  That  was  his  office.  He  would  call  them,  if 
he  needed  them. 

He  could  not  keep  her  from  his  watch.  She  was 
there  with  him,  and  he  knew  it ;  though  doors  were 
closed  between  them,  and  the  silence  of  sleep  lay  upon 
the  house.  He  knew  she  did  not  sleep.  He  felt  her 


A  BIRTHDAY;  AND  WHAT  IT  BROUGHT.    427 

wakeful  thoughts  with  him,  all  through  the  midnight. 
There  were  but  two  hours  wherein  he  had  a  sense  of 
being  alone.  These  two  Joanna  slept,  sitting  in  the 
great,  old-fashioned  easy-chair  by  the  best  room  win 
dow.  She  had  risen  noiselessly  from  Rebecca's  side, 
unable  to  close  her  eyes,  leaving  her  sister  quietly  un 
conscious.  And  at  last,  relinquished  sleep  had  come 
to  her. 

He  knew  she  was  coming.  It  was  early  dawn,  and 
there  had  been  no  sound.  But  the  felt  presence  was 
with  him  again;  his  watch  was  no  longer  solitary.  As 
the  morning  paled  out  of  the  midnight,  and  the  stars 
fainted,  and  the  first  blush  came  over  the  gray,  he 
heard  without  surprise  her  step  approaching;  the  soft 
sweep  of  her  garments  stirred  the  air  of  the  hushed 
house.  He  stood  up  in  the  doorway  as  she  came,  and 
held  his  hand  out. 

"No  change?" 

"No  change." 

Could  the  heart  help  it,  if,  out  of  its  complex 
meanings,  a  second  wound  itself  to  the  words,  and 
came  thrilling  after,  like  a  blessed  echo  ? 

No  change,  between  these  two. 

It  might  never  be  said  plainer;  the  tangle  of  life 
might  go  on,  the  flaw  from  that  twisted  thread  of  long 
ago  might  never  be  righted  into  perfectness;  yet  the 
inevitable  truth  —  the  pattern  divined  across  the  fault 
—  flashed  so,  with  now  and  then  chance  lights,  and 
comforted  them,  they  scarce  knew  how. 

Joanna  stayed  in  the  kitchen ;  drew  out  the  glowing 
embers  from  under  the  ashes  in  the  wide,  old-fashioned 
chimney ;  heaped  them  into  a  living  mass,  with  trem 
ulous,  spirit-breath  of  fire;  set  something  upon  the 
coals ;  flitted  between  pantry  and  dairy ;  and  brought 
Gabriel,  presently,  a  great,  steaming,  odorous  break' 
fast-cup  of  such  coffee  as  she  could  make. 


428  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

"If  you  will  take  some,  too,"  he  said,  as  she  put  it 
into  his  hand.  "I  don't  think  you  have  slept  much 
more  than  I." 

So  she  fetched  another  cup  and  poured  herself  some, 
and  they  broke  their  fast  together. 

Hiram  and  Abby  appeared  presently.  The  world 
was  going  to  be  alive  again. 

"Now,  you  must  go  and  rest,"  Joanna  said.  "Re 
becca  will  be  here.  I  will  call  you  in  an  hour." 

By  that  promise  she  prevailed,  and  Gabriel  left  her. 
To  faithful  watch  and  most  sweet  thoughts. 

The  morning  wore  along.      The  hour  went  by. 

"  I  think  he  looks  more  as  if  he  knew, "  said  Joanna, 
coming  from  the  bedside. 

There  had  been  a  stupor  like  a  sleep ;  now  there  was 
a  clearer  look,  an  opened  eye,  in  that  half  the  aged 
face  where  soul  yet  lingered  so  strangely;  the  dead 
half  lying  so  fearfully  dead. 

A  glance  met  Gabriel's  as  he  came  close;  there  could 
be  no  sign ;  it  was  but  a  look.  Asking,  beseeching ; 
recognizing  sound ;  a  quicker  consciousness  than,  in 
the  twilight  of  his  faculties,  the  poor  old  man  had  shown 
for  years. 

Gabriel  got  the  Bible  that  lay  upon  the  bureau- top ; 
he  opened  where  there  was  a  mark  between  the  leaves; 
standing  by  his  father's  bed,  he  read  some  verses; 
straight  on  from  where  he  had  read  last,  forty- eight 
hours  ago.  The  asking  eye  calmed;  the  smitten  face 
wore  a  look  of  listening;  the  one  hand  pressed  Gabriel's 
as  he  took  it,  when  he  had  ended  reading.  Bending 
above  him,  the  strong,  tender  man  spoke  like  a  child 
the  simple  words  of  the  Lord's  Prayer.  It  had  been 
his  morning  service  with  his  childlike  father  for  many 
years.  Joanna  bowed  her  head  and  the  tears  fell. 
"The  best  Christian  in  Hilbury, "  her  heart  repeated. 

The  morning  wore  along.      The  church-bells  rang. 


A  BIRTHDAY,-  AND  WHAT  IT  BROUGHT.    429 

The  people  streamed  by  up  the  road,  in  country  wag 
ons.  The  Sabbath  warmth  and  stillness  brooded ;  and 
a  rest  lay  upon  the  land.  There  was  a  hush  and  quiet 
in  the  house  where  Death  was  coming.  All  through 
the  early  day  and  the  bright  noontide,  that  seeming  of 
sleep  was  upon  the  sick  man ;  then  again,  at  afternoon, 
the  faint  rousing;  the  glimmer  of  a  life-light  over  the 
half -blank  face ;  the  eye  that  searched,  and  wandered, 
and  besought;  the  hand  moving  restlessly,  till  the 
strong  one  came  and  clasped  it.  And  Gabriel  said, 
gently,  as  the  returning  wagons  began  to  roll  down 
hill,  "I  will  go,  father,  for  the  minister.  It  is  Sun 
day.  It  is  Communion  Day." 

So  he  went ;  and  Rebecca  made  ready.  When  he 
came  back,  bringing  the  preacher  with  him,  —  a  man 
of  grave,  pure  face,  and  somewhat  sternly  reverend 
bearing,  —  there  was  the  little  table  by  the  bedside, 
with  the  white  napkin  covering  it,  holding  fair  bread, 
and  red  symbolic  wine. 

There  was  a  voice  of  prayer  and  blessing.  Christ's 
dear  words  were  uttered,  and  the  bread  was  broken, 
and  the  wine  was  poured;  and  the  son  held  cup  and 
morsel,  as  he  had  been  wont  to  do,  to  the  old  helpless 
lips ;  and  the  women  bowed  and  wept. 

There  was  a  fragment  that  the  old  man  could  not 
take;  it  was  only  a  crumb,  indeed,  from  the  Lord's 
feast,  that  might  be  given  him.  And  Gabriel,  without 
pause  of  doubt  or  question,  shared  the  symbol  as  he 
.shared  the  gift.  Before,  he  had  done  this;  in  the 
church,  when  the  old  man  proffered  it  childishly,  or 
dropped  a  portion,  unpartaken ;  Gabriel  would  not  let 
it  fall  like  common  waste,  but  ate  it  with  a  quiet  rev 
erence.  To-day,  still  calmly,  questionlessly,  he  did 
more.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  lifted  the  wine 
to  his  own  lips  that  had  spoken  no  church- vow;  and 
the  Puritan  pastor  beheld  it,  saying  no  word.  It  was 


430  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

a  pure  assurance,  a  holy  audacity ;  had  not  his  whole 
life  been  a  vow?  Was  not,  in  this  hour,  this  cup 
of  a  last  supper  held  out  to  him,  above  them  all  ? 

Rebecca  joined  in  the  gracious  rite;  the  minister 
offered  its  emblems  to  her ;  it  was  her  proper  privi 
lege.  Joanna  sat  by  and  put  forth  no  hand.  But  her 
soul  was  with  the  soul  of  him  she  loved;  and  inwardly 
she  drank  with  him,  the  selfsame  pain,  —  the  selfsame 

joy- 
After  that  the  day  went  down.  The  light  of  a  hu 
man  life  went  also  down.  Slowly,  flickeringly,  flush- 
ing  a  little  at  the  last  with  a  parting  ray,  that  told 
the  coming  night  was  as  truly,  over  the  verge,  a  com 
ing  morning;  it  changed  and  settled  to  the  moveless 
Peace. 

In  the  dropping  shadow  they  went  out  at  last  and 
left  him.  Alone,  with  his  dead. 

And  a  cry  of  the  human  went  up  from  that  closed 
room.      A  word  gasped  up  from  earth  to  heaven. 
"I  've  been  true  to  you,  mother!  mother!  " 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE    SCARLET    OAK. 

THEY  came  again,  and  set  the  house  in  order  for  him 
for  the  burying.  They  made  all  sweet,  and  pure,  and 
orderly.  They  placed  flowers  about ;  common  home- 
flowers,  late-blooming;  colorless  asters  and  petunias. 
Joanna  brought  one  white  rose  from  her  own  window, 
twined  with  glistening  myrtle,  tied  with  a  ribbon. 
She  came  to  Gabriel  and  laid  it  on  his  hand.  "It  is 
for  the  mother,"  she  said  softly,  and  turned  away. 
There  was  a  thought  in  it  the  simple-spoken  woman 
would  not  put  in  words.  "For  the  new  bridal.  The 
golden  wedding  that  was  in  heaven  this  day." 

Gabriel  came  to  her  an  hour  or  two  before  the  ser 
vice.  He  was  freshly  dressed  in  pure  white  linen,  and 
his  Sunday  suit  that  was  always  black.  He  had  in 
his  hand  a  needle,  that  he  had  found  somewhere  and 
threaded.  Mary  Makepeace,  just  come,  was  in  her 
own  chamber. 

"I  must  trouble  you,"  he  said,  and  held  out  a  loos 
ened  wristband,  from  which  a  button  had  fallen.  A 
simple,  common  need,  coming  in  to  assert  itself  among 
deeper  need  and  loss,  as  such  things  do  in  this  strange 
life  of  ours. 

Joanna  had  been  sitting  by  the  window.  She  turned 
and  came  to  him.  She  had  filled  tenderer  office  for 
him  to-day  than  this ;  she  had  ministered  closer  to  his 
heart's  asking,  yet  there  was  something  in  this  homely, 
womanly  service  he  came  to  beg  of  her,  finding  no  other 
to  perform,  that  moved  and  thrilled  her  curiously,  even 
to  a  girl's  shyness.  He  held  his  hand  out  and  hers 


432  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

touched  it,  passing  back  and  forth  at  her  slight  task. 
They  stood  close  together.  It  was  such  a  bit  of  help 
as  a  sister  might  give  a  brother ;  a  wife,  a  husband. 
Suddenly  she  felt  the  color  come ;  up,  higher  and  higher 
into  her  face,  that  grew  angry  in  shame  at  itself;  at 
such  unfitting  hour  to  be  making  foolishly  much  of  a 
thing  like  this !  Yet  she  was  helpless ;  she,  with  her 
five  and  thirty  years.  She  would  not  do  her  work  at 
halves ;  she  fastened  her  thread  properly,  and  broke  it 
cautiously;  with  the  moisture  springing  to  her  very 
finger-tips,  and  a  beating  in  her  ears. 

What  could  he  think  of  her  ? 

He  only  said,  with  his  gentle,  dwelling  accent,  in 
variable  with  the  words,  "Thank  you —  Joanna!  " 

She  could  but  hope  he  would  forget ;  there  was  quite 
enough  to  make  him.  But  he  did  not  forget;  he  only 
put  by. 

For  a  fortnight  after,  they  saw  little  of  him;  the 
time  of  helping  and  necessity  was  past ;  he  had  Mary 
Makepeace  with  him  for  all  service ;  they  were  only 
neighbor-women  again;  he,  a  man,  living  alone;  se 
cluded,  with  a  grief. 

Of  any  definite  difference  these  events  might  make 
to  her,  Joanna  never  let  herself  think ;  but  she  was 
perturbed,  restless  with  a  secret  something  that  was 
not  joy,  —  how  could  it  be  ?  yet  that  had  been  never 
still  in  her,  — only  overborne  by  tenderer,  solemner 
feeling,  since  that  birthday  morning  when  it  sprang 
like  a  mysterious  premonition,  unlocked  for,  in  her 
heart.  The  friendly  calm,  the  calm  that  she  had 
thought  for  life,  was  leaving  her;  since  that  foolish, 
miserable  moment,  she  had  been  afraid  of  herself; 
afraid  of  him ;  she  held  back  suddenly  from  what  she 
had  eagerly  claimed  in  virtue  of  her  years ;  she  let  Re 
becca  go  foremost  now,  in  neighborly  kindness.  She 
said  to  herself  she  was  a  fool ;  getting  into  a  girl-silli- 


THE  SCARLET  OAK.  433 

ness,  now  when  she  had  lived  out  half  her  life.  Now, 
just  when  her  friendship  might  be  quietest  and  strong 
est  ;  when  it  was  bringing  her  toward  Gabriel,  as  they 
should  come  nearer  to  each  other,  now  that  they  both 
were  growing  old. 

She  was  odd;  impulsive;  she  made  Rebecca  think 
of  the  old  Joanna,  with  her  unreasonableness  and 
whims,  her  petulance,  her  sudden  despondencies,  her 
gayeties,  as  sudden. 

It  went  on  so  for  weeks ;  and  the  autumn  ripened. 
The  early  glories  came  and  went ;  the  maples  flamed ; 
the  elms  mellowed ;  oak  and  ash  burnished  themselves 
in  bronze  and  crimson ;  and  the  winds  came  and 
fresheted  all  the  waysides  and  woodpaths  with  a  down 
pour  of  color. 

Over  in  the  great  orchard,  beside  the  boulder-tower, 
the  brave  old  scarlet  oak  burst  out  with  tardy  fires. 
Like  a  passion  or  a  joy  come  late  in  life,  it  filled  all 
the  impoverished  landscape  with  a  deep,  strong  warmth 
of  radiance.  Above  it  the  blue  hung  tenderly;  it  was 
a  picture  of  hope ;  a  promise ;  a  type  of  grand  and  sure 
fulfillment. 

"It  has  waited  to  be  more  beautiful  than  all;  it 
will  last  away  into  the  winter.  I  '11  go  and  bring 
home  branches,  and  pile  them  on  my  hearth  to  warm 
me  by, "  Joanna  said,  looking  out  through  thinning 
boughs  that  opened  toward  the  distant  splendor. 

She  felt  the  life-meaning  of  it ;  the  correspondence 
of  its  hope  was  in  her  soul.  Nameless,  restless,  stir 
ring  fitfully,  like  branches  flashing  in  an  autumn  wind ; 
but  large  and  real;  planted  there  beside  a  rock. 

She  came  downstairs  with  shawl  and  hood  upon  her 
arm. 

"I'm  going  off,  out  to  the  great  oak  orchard;  to 
be  glad,  and  to  bring  home  glory.  Look  there !  "  and 
she  pointed  out  at  the  opened  door,  to  the  great  dome 


434  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

of  sunlight  and  color,  rearing  itself  against  a  space  of 
sky  between  the  hills. 

"  But  look  here !  "  whispered  Rebecca. 

"Yah'  "  responded  Joanna,  in  a  snarl,  below  her 
breath. 

Mrs.  Prouty  was  within  the  yard,  coming  up  over 
the  chips  with  the  security  of  a  saint  in  her  ordained 
place,  it  being  her  special  afternoon  for  visits,  and 
with  most  intimate  aim  at  the  side  door-stone  whereon 
Joanna  was  just  about  to  set  her  foot.  Country  civil 
ity  could  not  avail  itself  of  "business"  or  "engage 
ments  "  and  walk  off,  straight  before  the  comer's  eyes, 
into  the  empty  fields.  Gladness  and  glory  must  give 
way ;  she  must  come  in  with  her  guest  and  pretend  to 
be  pleased. 

Mrs.  Prouty  and  the  deacon  had  been  down  to  see 
Gabriel.  A  visit,  ex  officio,  of  condolence  and  exhor 
tation  ;  a  fag  end  of  business  appended,  which  leading 
the  "men-folks  "  off  toward  the  barns  and  cider-mill, 
the  good  lady  had  bid  Mary  Makepeace  good-by,  and 
"guessed  she  would  step  on  up-hill  and  set  with  the 
Gayworthys  till  the  deacon  came  along." 

People  whose  lives  jog  on  in  uneventful  rounds  are 
greatly  stirred  at  changes  happening  to  their  neighbors. 
Mrs.  Prouty  was  exercised  as  to  the  "what  next " 
with  Gabriel  Hartshorne. 

"All  alone  in  the  world  as  he  was  now,  and  nothing 
to  bind  him  anywhere,  would  he  stay,  and  carry  on 
the  farm,  or  would  he  git  res 'less  and  start  off?  " 

The  great  world  suddenly  spread  itself  out  to  Jo 
anna's  thought,  as  it  had  looked  to  her  that  summer 
day  from  the  mountain-top.  It  was  too  wide.  Too 
many  things  were  possible.  Her  life,  that  had  been 
concentred  in  one  point,  might  scatter  itself.  How 
should  she  bear  it  if  it  did?  Oh,  a  friend  was  a 
troublesome  thing!  There  was  no  outward  ownership 


THE  SCARLET  OAK.  435 

in  him.  He  might  take  himself  off,  stretching  out 
your  heartstrings  after  him  to  the  ends  of  the  earth, 
and  you  should  have  no  right  to  cry  out.  An  impo 
tent  restlessness,  an  angry  impatience,  seized  her  again. 
She  hated  Mrs.  Prouty.  She  almost  snapped  at  her, 
and,  catching  herself  at  it,  decided  not  to  try  to  talk, 
but  left  the  conversation  to  Rebecca,  and  sat  by,  her 
elbow  pressed  down  hard  upon  the  window-sill,  and 
one  foot  treading  savagely  on  the  other's  toes. 

"It  's  my  idee,"  —  she  caught  the  words  up  here, 
after  a  confused  babble  about  the  farm,  and  the  ex 
pense  of  hired  folks  in  the  house,  and  the  difficulties 
to  a  single  man,  during  which  her  thought  had  hurled 
itself  away  on  its  own  tangent  of  pain,  —  "it 's  my 
idee,  — he  's  been  tied  down  so  close  all  his  life,  — 
he  '11  go  somewers  now.  I  donno  's  I  've  any  clear 
callin'  to  mention  it,  but-  I  s'pose  you  'd  know  as 
quick  as  anybody  if  there  was  anything  in  it,  — Mary 
Makepeace  did  say  something  to-day  about  Californy. 
She  's  got  a  brother  there;  and  Gabriel 's  been  asking 
questions,  it  seems.  She  kinder  mistrusts  he  's  got 
a  notion  of  it  in  his  head;  and  the  deacon  says  the 
farm  is  ruther  run  out,  some  of  it.  He  thinks  very 
well  of  Gabriel,  the  deacon  does;  though  he  isn't  an 
experimental  Christian.  But  I  hope,  now  father  and 
mother  has  forsaken  him,  he  '11  look  to  the  Lord  to 
take  him  up." 

Hot,  indignant  drops  started  to  Joanna's  eyes;  her 
cheeks  flamed;  she  whisked  herself  suddenly  off  her 
seat,  and  into  the  kitchen,  where  she  put  her  head  into 
the  oven,  to  look  after  gingerbread  that  had  been  cool 
ing  for  fifteen  minutes  in  the  pantry. 

She  was  saved  return.  The  deacon's  chaise  see 
sawed  and  clattered  itself,  ricketily,  to  the  door-stone ; 
and  Mrs.  Prouty  bustled  out.  She  never  kept  the  dea 
con  waiting.  The  ineffable  complacency  of  the  perfect 


436  THE  GAYWORTH.YS. 

woman  spread  itself  over  her  face,  and  her  features 
leveled  themselves  into  a  plane  of  benignity,  as  if  they 
had  been  suddenly  flatironed,  as  she  took  her  privileged 
seat  by  his  side,  and  departed  sweetly  to  remaining 
duties. 

Joanna  shut  the  door  in  a  silent  rage,  and  darted 
upstairs.  Rebecca  had  some  housewifely  business  in 
the  kitchen  chamber,  and  followed. 

"I  wonder,"  she  said  simply,  with  her  head  in  a 
linen  chest,  close  by  Joanna's  chamber  door,  "whether 
Gabriel  really  does  think  of  going  away !  " 

"You,  too!  " 

It  came  with  a  sharpness  so  like  a  shriek,  that  Re 
becca  involuntarily  sprang  to  her  feet  and  entered  her 
sister's  room,  to  see  her  fling  herself  passionately  down 
along  the  bed ;  shawl,  hood,  and  all,  in  a  heap  between 
her  arms  and  under  her  face. 

"  Dear  child,  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

A  sob ;  a  little,  quick,  gasping  laugh ;  a  sob  again ; 
a  hand  stretched  out  and  clutching  Rebecca  by  the 
wrist ;  a  tempest  of  tears,  then ;  a  real  shriek,  smoth 
ered  with  the  head  held  down  between  the  shawl  and 
pillows. 

Rebecca  slipped  from  her  grasp  and  shut  the  doors 
and  brought  sal  volatile.  This  "old  Miss  Gayworthy, " 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  most  unexpectedly  to 
herself,  yet  with  the  utmost  naturalness,  was  going 
into  hysterics. 

"  That  woman  —  she  always  —  hears  —  with  her 
elbows!  But  to  think  —  that  you  —  shouldn't  know 
• —  any  better !  " 

She  knew  enough  better,  now.  She  wondered  she 
had  never  known  before. 

She  put  her  arms  around  her  sister,  tenderly;  she 
drew  her  head  down  on  her  bosom. 

It  was  all  out ;  there  was  no  help  for  it ;  and  Joanna 


THE  SCAELET  OAK.  437 

gave  herself  up,  recklessly,  to  the  comfort  of  a  dear 
human  sympathy. 

"You  never  told  me  this,"  said  Rebecca  by  and  by, 
almost  reproachfully.  She  forgot  she  had  never  told 
her  sister  that.  We  live  so  close  together,  and  yet  so 
far  apart! 

"Did  you  think  I  would?  "  cried  Joanna,  lifting  up 
her  head  suddenly,  with  something  of  the  old  spirit 
of  whimsicalness.  "Did  you  ever  know  of  a  burnt 
hand  I  got  once,  when  I  was  five  years  old,  and  nobody 
ever  could  find  out  how?  There  's  the  scar;  I  wonder 
if  you  ever  saw  it  before  ?  "  and  she  held  up  her  fair 
palm,  whereon  was  a  whitened  seam.  "Well!  now 
you  've  seen  it,  and  I  'm  come  to  general  confession, 
and  I  '11  tell  you.  I  took  up  a  live  coal  in  it.  I 
wasn't  fool  enough  to  tell  that, — though  I  did  it; 
nor  this ;  not  even  the  smart  of  it.  Only  —  the  old 
hurt  began  to  ache  so,  all  of  a  sudden !  " 

And  Joanna  laughed  and  cried,  again,  together; 
and  turned  herself  away,  and  hid  her  face  in  the  pil 
low;  all  but  one  crimsoned  ear,  that  looked  as  if  it 
had  been  boxed. 

After  a  while,  in  a  smothered  voice,  with  her  nose 
down  among  the  feathers,  — 

"Aren't  you  gone?  You  've  got  it  all,  now;  why 
don't  you  go  away?  "  She  spoke  as  if  to  a  dog  that 
had  come  for  a  bone. 

Whereupon  the  other  rose,  silently,  from  the  bed 
side,  and  went. 

An  hour  after,  downstairs,  by  the  sitting  -  room 
window,  Rebecca  lifted  her  eyes  from  her  needlework, 
to  see  Gabriel  Hartshorne  coming,  with  his  grave  air 
and  steady  step,  up  among  the  red  and  yellow  maple 
leaves.  At  the  same  instant,  something  in  a  shawl 
and  hood  whisked  out  at  the  end  door  and  flitted  down 
the  barn- road,  by  the  garden  fence. 


438  THE  GAY  WORTHY  S. 

Years  ago,  she  had  been  left,  just  so,  to  bear  her  own 
hurt ;  now,  she  must  receive  the  first  pang  for  another. 

Gabriel  was  come  to  tell  them  something.  Of  him 
self,  perhaps ;  this  very  news.  It  did  not  seem  im 
possible  to  Rebecca  that  it  might  be  true.  In  the 
prime  of  life,  alone,  with  untried  capacity  yet  waiting 
within  him,  what  wonder  would  it  be  if  this  man, 
always  of  a  power  beyond  the  scope  he  found  for  it, 
should  go  forth  from  his  solitude  into  the  great  world, 
at  last  ? 

She  stood  up  and  glanced  after  the  flitting  figure. 
Safe ;  skimming  along  the  cart-path  through  the  spring 
meadow,  already ;  making  straight  for  the  oak-orchard 
and  the  great  scarlet  tree.  Then  she  went  out  and 
welcomed  Gabriel,  and  drew  him  in ;  lest,  left  to  wait 
an  instant  on  the  door-stone,  he  should  turn  and  see 
what  she  saw. 

He  came  in  and  sat  down ;  sat  silent,  for  some  mo 
ments  ;  he  was  apt  to  come  and  sit  so,  in  those  days ; 
and  the  sisters  never  took  it  strange,  or  hastened  him 
with  speech. 

"I  've  been  thinking,"  he  began,  after  a  while,  "a 
great  deal,  lately.  And  I  've  come  to  talk  some  of 
my  thoughts  out." 

"You  can.      You  know  that,  Gabriel." 

"I  know;  and  I  do;  all  that  can  be  talked  of.  It 
seems  to  me  sometimes  as  if  my  work  was  done  here 
—  for  the  present." 

"I  dare  say  it  does,  just  now,"  she  answered. 

"The  farm  would  be  as  well  let  out,  no  doubt.  I 
don't  seem  to  feel  spirit  for  what  it  needs.  The  soul 
of  the  old  place  is  gone.  And  yet  it 's  home  to  me. 
You  can't  tell  hoiv,  Rebecca!  Out  in  the  world,  some 
where,  there  may  be  something  waiting  for  me  to  do, 
and  to  get.  If  I  could  go  and  bring  back  money  — 
Rebecca,  I  'm  not  well  off,  and  the  farm  won't  make 


THE  SCARLET  OAK.  439 

me  richer.  Things  have  run  down  a  good  deal  in  all 
these  years.  If  I  could  ever  stand  in  the  right  posi 
tion,  there  might  be  "  —  Gabriel  paused.  He  had 
not  come  to  think  all  his  thoughts  out,  after  all. 

She  wondered  to  herself  if  she  guessed  rightly. 
This  was  a  proud  man;  with  the  grand,  honest  pride 
that  keeps  men  upright  of  mind,  though  nobly  humble, 
also,  of  soul.  They  —  the  Gay  worthy  sisters  —  were 
the  heiresses  of  Hilbury,  with  money  and  culture  more 
than  their  neighbors ;  more  than  this  faithful  son  who 
had  waited  God's  time;  who  seemed  not  ever  to  find 
his  own  time. 

"  Hilbury  would  miss  you  sorely, "  she  said,  with  a 
tremble  of  regret  and  sympathy. 

"Not  as  I  should  miss  Hilbury,"  he  answered,  in 
a  sudden,  strong  way,  that  was  almost  like  a  spoken 
sob,  the  feeling  burst  so  with  it.  "My  whole  heart 
is  here,  as  my  life  has  been.  And  my  grave  must  be 
here,  as  theirs  are." 

They  were  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  Re 
becca  asked,  — 

"Where  would  you  go,  Gabriel?  " 

"To  the  place  from  which  I  could  come  quickest 
back  again.  To  the  gold  country." 

Upon  this  moment  might  hang  all.  It  was  laid 
upon  her  to  speak.  But  how? 

Out  of  her  true,  friendly  heart. 

"We  might  bear  it.  But  it  would  be  very  hard. 
Gold  doesn't  buy  friendship,  Gabriel,  or  make  it  any 
richer.  You  might  come  back  to  find  more  graves. 
You  might  not  come  till  we  should  all  be  old.  Don't 
go,  Gabriel !  " 

He  flashed  up  a  strange,  earnest,  appealing  look  to 
her  face.  Some  women  might  have  misunderstood  it. 
She  herself  might  have  wondered  at  it,  but  for  what 
she  had  learned  this  day.  She  read  it  truly  now.  If 


440  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

other    lips  had    so    besought!      If  this,    or  something 
like,  yet  more,  might  be  in  another  heart  for  him ! 

She  was  sure.  With  her  pure  insight  she  discerned 
it  all.  She  spoke  to  his  silence.  She  reached  straight 
down  and  touched  the  secret  of  his  soul.  With  a 
quick,  sweet,  electric  surprise. 

"  If  you  must  go, "  —  she  spoke  slow  and  steadily, 
yet  with  a  low  thrill  of  womanly  timidity,  —  "if  you 
find  you  must,  come  and  tell  Joanna  yourself .  I  don't 
dare!" 

Two  breaths  were  audible  in  the  still  room.  A 
fluttering  respiration  of  a  woman  frightened  at  her 
words  the  moment  they  had  fallen.  A  deep,  hard 
pant  out  of  the  bosom  of  a  man. 

.Rebecca  stood  by  the  window.  She  had  risen  and 
turned  her  face  away  outward.  A  step  came  up  to 
her ;  a  hand  lay  on  her  shoulder.  The  strong,  eager 
breathing  was  in  her  ear. 

"Where  is  Joanna?  " 

"Away  down  there  in  the  oak-orchard.  Gone  to 
the  old  tree." 

Gabriel  snatched  his  hat  and  strode  away. 

She  heard  him  coming,  sitting  there  under  the 
spread  of  the  great  flaming  boughs,  and  looking  off 
from  this  lower  edge  of  the  orchard  over  the  yellow 
stubble  of  cornstalks  down  the  slope  to  the  still,  sweet 
river-glen,  and  across  to  the  rising  uplands  beyond,  — 
the  fields  that  joined  the  Hartshorne  farm,  and  had 
been  rented  and  used  by  Gabriel. 

She  sat  there  trying  to  take  it  all  in;  how  Hilbury 
would  look  without  him ;  what  her  life  would  be ;  and 
whether  she  could  bear  it.  She  took  up  this  live  coal 
of  pain  and  tried  how  long  she  could  hold  it ;  and  a 
cry  was  rising  to  her  lips  as  the  anguish  grew  too 
sharp;  and  then  she  heard  him  coming. 


THE  SCARLET  OAK.  441 

She  sat  still,  moving  not  a  hair;  not  even  to  look 
up,  as  one  cowers  under  the  coming  of  a  blow.  She 
waited  to  be  crushed. 

"Joanna!  "  and  two  hands  were  held  to  her. 

She  put  hers  up  and  let  him  take  them,  but  she 
lifted  not  her  face. 

"  Dear  friend,  I  have  come  to  tell  —  to  ask  you  — 
something. " 

"Ask,  Gabriel." 

He  seated  himself  beside  her  on  the  fallen  leaves ; 
over  their  heads  the  red,  shifting  lights  of  that  late 
forest-fervor;  in  their  hearts  what  ripeness  of  strong 
love,  waiting  the  frost-touch  for  its  perfect  revelation ! 

"I  have  had  thoughts, — I  don't  know  whether 
they  are  wise  ones,  but  my  life  turns  here.  I  must 
decide  what  the  rest  of  it  shall  be,  and  I  have  come 
to-day  to  tell  my  thoughts  to  my  best  friends.  I  am 
not  yet  old ;  there  may  be  something  that  I  can  do  in 
the  world.  Ought  I  to  go  and  find  it?  and  come 
back,  —  that  of  a  certainty,  God  willing,  —  when  I 
have  found  and  done  it  ?  " 

"Why  do  you  come  and  say  this  to  me?"  The 
face  still  turned  away,  and  the  eyes  downward;  a 
strange  forced  tone  in  the  voice. 

"Because  —  I  must,  Joanna.  I  have  said  all  to 
you,  always." 

"No,  you  have  not!  "  It  was  a  cry  of  the  heart  in 
which  the  words  came.  "And  this — you  know  I 
cannot  bear  it !  " 

Then  she  started  to  her  feet  and  flung  herself  away 
from  him. 

For  a  moment  the  great  surge  of  joy  that  swelled  up 
in  him  would  not  let  him  speak.  The  crimson  flush 
was  on  his  brow ;  the  tardy  glory  of  his  life  had 
crowned  him.  She  stood,  scarlet  in  her  woman's 
shame,  in  the  low,  red  sunlight  under  the  scarlet  tree. 


442  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

"Why  don't  you  shame  me?  Why  don't  you  pay 
me  back?  Why  don't  you  tell  me  what  I  told  you 
years  ago  ?  " 

She  pelted  the  sentences  at  him  over  her  turned 
shoulder;  she  scourged  herself  with  the  smiting  ques 
tions,  in  their  rapid  tones  like  lashings. 

But  before  she  had  finished  he  held  her  in  his  arms. 
In  his  strong,  tender  arms,  that  had  waited  with  their 
first,  pure  longing,  all  these  years. 

"God  gives,  at  last!" 

The  golden  afternoon  light,  the  autumn  glow,  were 
over  and  about  them.  And  a  like  light  shone  radiant 
on  the  hidden  beauty  that  their  life  had  woven;  the 
pattern  different  from  their  own  purpose,  —  traced 
after  God's  thought  for  them.  Had  any  brightness 
been  left  out  ? 

"We  might  have  been  together  in  it  all.  So  many 
years  we  lost, "  said  Gabriel. 

"We  have  been,  Gabriel;  close  together,  always,  in 
our  hearts ;  the  years  are  not  lost !  "  So  she  answered. 


CHAPTER   XXXin. 

VIEWS;    ACROSS    AND    BACK. 

IN  the  narrow  city  streets,  people  who  cannot  see 
clouds  and  fields  and  hills  see  something  else.  There 
are  other  "views"  for  them  than  the  bit  of  far-off 
green,  or  the  pinched  gleam  of  broad  sunsets  that 
comes  to  them  through  narrow,  bricked  vistas.  They 
have  human  life.  They  look  in  at  opening  doors  and 
at  uncurtained  windows.  They  have  views  into  homes, 
imaginative  peeps  into  hearts.  "Across  the  way" 
there  is  always  something:  an  arrival,  a  departure; 
a  funeral,  a  wedding ;  or  the  daily  uneventful  coming 
and  going  of  the  same  steps,  in  the  same  rounds,  — 
the  apparition  of  the  same  faces  at  the  same  panes,  — 
that  make  the  quiet  continuance  of  things  that  seem 
as  if  they  had  always  been  and  always  must  be. 

There  are  lives  that  look  out  so,  and  borrow;  feed 
continually  upon  the  life  they  find  about  them ;  love, 
and  pity,  and  surmise ;  weave  histories  and  hopes,  — 
find  all  the  play  of  human  interests  and  affections  in 
the  little  cognizance  they  get  of  human  creatures, 
whose  real  hopes  are  but  a  guessed-out  story;  whose 
very  names  and  voices  they  may  never  come  to  know. 

Grace  Lowder  sat  so,  day  by  day,  in  her  little  cor 
ner  window,  and  read,  as  best  she  could,  the  simple 
chronicles  that  evolved  themselves  in  her  sight ;  having 
-a  great  joy  and  interest  in  the  activities  so  unlike  her 
own  helplessness,  —  the  vigorous  living  she  could  never 
share. 

Diagonally,  across  the  square,  was  old  Grossman's; 
and  his  second  story  corner  room,  that  corresponded  to 


444  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

her  own,  had  a  never-failing  fascination  of  mystery, 
an  occasional  very  absorbing  charm  of  attraction,  in 
its  aspect. 

Nobody  could  get  anything  out  of  old  Grossman ;  he 
let  his  rooms,  or  shut  them  up,  or  hid  himself  away 
in  them,  in  his  surly,  solitary  living,  and  "nobody," 
as  Mrs.  Hopeley  said,  "knew  the  who,  or  the  how, 
or  the  why,  or  the  wherefore."  There  was  something 
odd,  and  quaint,  and  strangely  pleasant  to  Grace,  in 
the  glimpses  the  sunlight,  glancing  in  and  reflecting 
itself  through  the  windows,  opening  like  hers  from 
street  to  street,  gave  her,  now  and  then,  of  this  oppo 
site  chamber.  Sometimes  for  months,  —  for  a  year 
and  more,  even,  —  it  had  been  a  blank,  with  its  closed 
blinds;  then  the  life  came  to  it  again,  and  the  light 
was  let  in,  and  the  curious  feeling  came  over  her  that 
friends  had  got  back. 

She  did  not  pry  with  intent  of  impertinence ;  but 
she  could  not  help  looking,  and  when  the  day  poured 
in  and  out,  or  the  lamplight  shone  there,  and  the  cur 
tains  were  not  drawn,  as  they  hardly  ever  were  for 
hours  of  an  evening,  she  could  not  help  seeing. 

Antique-looking  pictures ;  queer  things  in  cane  and 
carved  work ;  shells ;  a  parrot  in  a  cage,  which,  whether 
it  went  away  in  a  trunk  when  the  lodgers  took  them 
selves  off,  or  was  secreted  in  the  rear  with  old  Cross- 
man,  Mrs.  Hopeley  avowed  herself  "conundered  "  to 
tell;  a  narrow  bed,  — a  fixture  in  the  recess  of  the 
wall,  in  whose  like  space  was  her  own  closet,  —  over 
spread  with  covering  of  some  strange,  rich,  oriental 
stuff ;  a  painted  lantern  hanging  from  the  ceiling ;  over 
the  mantel  some  foreign  -  looking  weapons  fastened 
against  the  wall ;  books ;  instruments  ;  spy  -  glasses ; 
maps ;  every  available  space  crowded  with  what  seemed 
the  heterogeneous  drift  of  a  roving  and  busy  life,  that 
had  gathered  itself,  somehow,  into  this  little  cove  of 
temporary  rest. 


VIEWS,-  ACROSS  AND  BACK.  445 

In  the  midst  of  it  all,  two  men,  as  curiously  unlike 
each  other  as  any  other  two  things  there.  Father  and 
son?  It  was  hardly  possible.  Brothers?  It  could 
not  be.  Master  and  servant  ?  The  one  was  a  gentle 
man  ;  but  the  other  was  too  much  of  a  man.  Compan 
ions  they  seemed,  and  friends ;  friends  that  had  found 
each  other  across  some  social  chasm ;  there  was  a  rough 
deference  from  the  older  to  the  younger  that,  beside 
his  different  bearing,  evidenced  this.  The  older  man 
came  first,  always ;  sometimes  he  would  be  there  for 
days  and  weeks  alone.  Then  the  parrot  hung  in  the 
front  window,  and .  he  would  sit  there  and  smoke  his 
pipe;  the  very  puffs  of  it  came,  often,  in  pleasant 
weather,  through  the  opened  sashes  into  Grace's  room. 

Grace  used  to  sit  and  sew;  and  these  two,  with  a 
dozen  yards  between  them,  —  with  two  utterly  distinct 
and  unknown  lives  holding  them  apart,  —  thought 
many  thoughts  about  each  other  in  a  dreamy  way,  that 
was  hardly  an  active,  conscious  interest,  but  that  made, 
none  the  less,  a  real  place  for  each  in  the  other's  liv 
ing  sympathies. 

It  was  strange  how  much  they  thought.  The  gray, 
rough  man  wondered  at  himself,  half  impatiently, 
when  he  found  himself  missing  uneasily,  sometimes, 
the  little  figure  seated  at  her  quiet  tasks,  on  the  infre 
quent  days  when  she  worked  away  from  home.  He 
watched  her  coming  back  in  the  dusk,  after  her  day's 
labor;  and  he  saw  with  a  strong  man's  half-compre 
hending  pity,  that  the  little  thing  was  lame.  She  knew 
his  tread  upon  the  pavement,  when  he  came  up  the 
street ;  and  was  glad  when  he  went  in  at  the  door,  and 
listened  for  him  to  fling  up  the  window ;  for,  winter 
or  summer,  he  did  that ;  he  was  a  hardy,  out- door  man, 
who  could  not  endure  stifling.  It  was  somehow  pleas 
ant  to  her  to  know  that  there  was  such  a  grand,  defi 
ant  strength  in  the  world ;  to  her,  a  feeble  little  lonely 


446  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

creature,  that  had  never  known  father  or  brother.  She 
felt  safer  in  the  nights  when  these  neighbors  had  come 
back,  and  the  corner  room  was  occupied ;  she  thought, 
if  there  was  a  fire,  or  robbers  should  get  in,  she  could 
call  out  loud  and  help  would  come ;  she  said  her  prayers 
and  slept  trustfully;  but  this  was  good  also. 

Once,  on  a  winter  day,  something  happened  that 
caused  this  feeling  of  pity  and  reliance  to  grow  sud 
denly  from  a  secret  sense  into  a  proved  reality. 

The  narrow  sidewalks  were  slippery  with  ice ;  more 
slippery,  in  these  by-streets,  with  long  "slides  "  which, 
the  boys  had  made;  ground  glassy  ^smooth,  with  fine- 
scored  lines,  tempting  to  all  young  feet.  One  of  these 
stretched  from  below  Mrs.  Hopeley's,  quite  out,  along 
the  fronts  of  two  houses,  to  the  curbstone  at  the  corner. 
The  widow  hadn't  the  heart  to  put  ashes  on  it;  she 
and  Grace  both  loved  to  watch  the  merry  groups  that 
gathered  there :  rosy  little  girls  in  hoods  and  mittens, 
with  a  run  and  a  hop,  and  a  stoop,  launching  them 
selves,  with  small  momentum,  along  the  shining  way ; 
boys,  dashing  with  fearless  velocity,  upright,  from  end 
to  end ;  even  a  grown  man,  now  and  then,  taking  it  in 
his  way,  as  if  he  didn't  mean  it,  an  old-times  feeling 
getting  him,  nevertheless,  by  the  heel.  They  had  only, 
in  their  comings  and  goings,  to  keep  the  inside ;  a  nar 
row  path,  to  be  sure,  but  room  enough;  so  the  slide 
remained,  and  widened. 

And  late  one  afternoon,  —  late,  counting  by  the  rap 
idly  falling  twilight  of  a  winter's  day,  —  Grace  Lowder 
and  her  crutch  came  round  the  corner,  just  as  a  great 
grocer's  boy,  with  big  boots,  and  clumsy  elbows  set 
akimbo,  and  a  parcel  under  his  arm,  plunged  himself 
along,  turning  about  and  ending  his  slide  backward 
upon  the  glare. 

The  wind  drew  through  the  street,  and  carried  Grace, 
with  her  insecure  footing,  a  few  steps  farther  than  she 


VIEWS;  ACROSS  AND  BACK.  447 

meant.  Exactly  where  she  met  it  full,  — big  boy,  and 
bundle,  elbows,  boots,  and  all.  The  little  figure  was 
borne  down ;  the  slender  crutch,  dashed  from  her  hand, 
flew  out  into  the  street,  and  a  wheel  went  over  it. 

"Blast  me!  "  came  a  strong  voice  from  above.  "If 
ever  I  see  a  little  craft  like  that  capsized,  and  the 
sticks  knocked  out  of  her  that  fashion !  " 

All  but  the  first  ejaculation  was  uttered  tortuously, 
in  the  narrow,  intestinal  windings  of  back  entry  and 
staircase,  down  which  the  speaker  plunged,  making  his 
impetuous  way  out  of  the  crooked  little  building  oppo 
site  ;  and  then  a  stout  pair  of  arms  were  round  the 
delicate  shoulders,  and  there  was  a  breath,  pungent 
with  pipe  odors,  but  with  nothing  worse,  close  to  the 
girl's  cheek,  and  she  was  lifted  tenderly,  not  to  her 
feet,  poor  child !  that  might  not  be,  but  to  an  upright 
posture,  and  borne  across  the  narrow,  slippery  side 
walk  to  Mrs.  Hopeley's  door. 

Some  strange,  dormant  instinct  stirred  in  Grace 
Lowder's  heart  as  she  balanced  herself  between  her 
one  strong  foot  and  the  other  hand,  catching  the  door 
post,  and  was  forced  to  lean  also  partly  against  the 
stalwart  support  that  would  not  relinquish  her.  The 
sweet,  womanly  sense  of  being  protected  by  manly 
power,  —  the  power  that  had  never  been  about  her  for 
her  aid.  She  had  hardly  so  much  as  had  the  touch  of 
a  man's  hand,  the  strength  of  a  man's  arm  given  her 
momentarily,  in  all  her  crippled,  helpless,  creeping 
up  from  childhood.  Her  mother  was  all ;  and  she  had 
been  gone  for  years ;  and  then  there  had  been  Mrs. 
Hopeley.  Beyond  these,  there  had  been  nothing  be 
tween  her  and  the  Almighty  Strength. 

She  had  seen,  while  she  was  a  child,  other  children 
led  along  by  fathers'  hands ;  a  maiden,  she  had  looked 
on  other  maidens  kept  close  in  brotherly  care.  She 
knew  there  was  all  this  in  the  world  —  for  others ; 


448  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

this  beautiful  vigor,  made  to  offset  and  defend  deli 
cate  helplessness ;  and  with  her  helplessness,  that  was 
beyond  all  ordinary  need  of  woman,  she  stood  alone ; 
with  her  crutch,  and  her  Father  who  was  in  heaven. 

She  never  dreamed  of  the  dearest  earthly  reliance 
of  all ;  that,  of  course,  was  not  for  her ;  it  had  never 
troubled  her  with  a  longing ;  but  if  she  could  have  had 
a,  father,  to  care  tenderly  for  her;  the  more,  that  she 
was  his  poor  lame  daughter ! 

This  instinct  it  was  that  warmed  and  stirred  with 
the  strangeness  of  its  first  answering;  she  trembled  in 
the  great  sturdy  arms.  If  it  had  been  a  gentleman, 
she  might  have  been  only  shy  and  thankful ;  there  would 
have  been,  perhaps,  no  heart-consciousness  in  it;  it 
would  have  been  a  chance  help,  that  she  would  have 
known  would  be  forgotten  the  instant  it  was  rendered ; 
but  this  was  not  a  gentleman ;  he  was  only  a  rough, 
odd,  honest,  kindly  man,  not  above  her  own  station ; 
for  age,  he  might  have  been  her  father;  there  might 
have  been  such  an  one,  if  God  had  willed,  to  cherish 
her ;  to  feel  life,  even,  brighter  to  himself  through  her, 
feeble  and  helpless  though  she  was.  All  this  did  not 
come  to  her  in  clear  order  as  she  leaned  there,  wait 
ing,  for  that  moment ;  it  was  a  confused  thrill,  born 
of  thoughts  that  had  been  hers  before ;  of  a  nameless 
missing  she  had  felt  of  an  unknown  thing  desired. 

And  Blackmere,  —  you  know  who  it  was  as  well  as 
I,  —  how  did  he  feel  ?  The  man  whom  life  had  hard 
ened  ;  who  had  had  no  woman-love,  of  mother,  sister, 
wife,  to  keep  him  gentle,  for  more  than  a  quarter  of  a 
century  that  had  gone  over  him  in  a  stern,  hopeless 
striving  with  the  world  ? 

Three  years  ago,  a  girl's  hand  had  held  his;  a  girl's 
voice  had  spoken  gentle  words  to  him ;  words  of  a 
sweet,  natural  faith,  that  had  set  his  soul  for  the  time 
in  a  new  attitude  toward  God.  Since  then,  he  had 


VIEWS;  ACROSS  AND  BACK.  449 

been  less  hard;  that  and  his  one  friendship,  fervent 
with  all  the  restrained  might  of  his  proud,  silent,  fiery 
nature,  had  begun  the  salvation  which  begins  by  a 
little  sometimes,  and  afar  off.  He  had  doubted; 
doubted  fiercely,  and  upbraidingly,  as  one  who  felt 
there  ought  to  be  a  God  and  a  Guidance  —  and  a  good 
in  the  world ;  but  who  had  been  hard  used  and  bewil 
dered,  till  he  was  all  adrift  and  could  not  make  it 
seem  to  be ;  but  he  had  not  positively  denied.  In  his 
darkest  hour,  when,  with  a  seeming  blasphemy,  he  had 
wished  that  he  might  "see  that  Person,"  it  had  been 
the  desperate  utterance  of  a  goaded  soul,  longing  in 
stinctively  for  the  One  only  possible  Redress.  The 
sight  of  a  pure,  young,  fervent  faith  had  secretly  al 
most  assured  him  of  that  whereon  it  rested.  The 
needle  turned ;  there  must  then,  somewhere,  be  a  great 
Central  Pole. 

He  had  never  forgotten  the  old,  uncompromising 
Bible  word,  invested  with  such  new  and  gracious  mean 
ing  by  the  sudden  insight  of  a  childlike,  unseared 
spirit.  It  had  whispered  itself  to  him  in  many  a  mo 
ment  since,  of  pain  and  danger,  when,  by  the  stringent 
call  of  the  hour,  he  had  been  "  elected  "  to  work  that 
only  such  as  he  could  do.  It  had  been  the  leaven  of 
the  kingdom  lying  in  his  soul ;  fermenting  slowly  to 
the  softening  of  that  hardness  which  was  more  an  outer 
crust  of  habit,  now,  than  any  deeper  induration. 
There  was  a  place  in  him  to  be  touched  and  occupied 
with  a  gentle  interest ;  and  this  young,  feeble  creature, 
with  her  quiet  life  that  showed  so  little  joy,  and  yet 
such  large,  abiding  peace,  —  with  its  beauty  of  cheer 
ful  labor,  and  its  sunniness  of  content,  —  had  reached 
and  held  it. 

He  had  been  half  afraid  in  his  returns  from  sea 
that  there  might  be  changes  at  the  old  corner.  That 
the  little  needle-woman,  with  her  bright  window,  her 


450  THE  GAY  WORTHY  S. 

work,  and  her  flowers,  might  be  replaced  by  something 
common  and  unlovely.  "My  little  girl,"  he  had  got 
to  call  her  in  his  thoughts.  So  far  as  this,  even,  the 
human  tenderness  had  repossessed  him. 

She  would  have  no  right  to  be  gone ;  she  belonged 
to  him  by  a  mysterious,  unspoken  tenure ;  yet  it  might 
be;  it  would  be  like  all  the  rest.  This  old  bitterness 
tinged  his  thought  as  he  came  homeward;  saying  no 
thing  of  his  one  secret  hope  and  longing ;  cherishing  it 
jealously,  in  silence;  bracing  himself  half  resentfully, 
in  advance,  against  the  disappointment  and  the  end  of 
it,  that  would  come  some  time,  —  might  come  now ; 
wearing  so,  always,  a  certain  savageness  and  defiance 
still,  when  he  neared  the  home-port  and  came  sailing 
in.  He  cheered  up  again  and  was  grimly  jolly,  when 
he  had  once  cast  anchor  at  old  Grossman's,  and  taken 
a  glance  around  at  his  bearings,  and  found  the  land 
marks  safe. 

"I  might  have  had  a  child  like  her,"  Ned  Black- 
mere  said  to  himself.  "I  ought  to.  Was  n't  I  made 
strong  to  take  care  of  something  like  that  ?  " 

So  he  had  sat  at  his  window  and  kept  his  secret  life, 
and  smoked  his  pipe;  and  there  was  this  wonderful 
soul-asking  and  answering  between  those  two,  who, 
until  to-day,  neighbors  for  years,  had  never  inter 
changed  an  outward  greeting. 

"Land  alive!  Why,  Grace,  child,  what 's  happened 
you?  "  said  Mrs.  Hopeley,  opening  the  door  and  reach 
ing  out  one  hand  to  help  her  in,  while  she  hurriedly 
settled  her  cap-ribbon  with  the  other,  at  sight  of  the 
"opposite  gentleman,"  as  she  always  called  him. 

Blackmere  somewhat  precipitately  resigned  his 
charge  to  the  good  woman;  indeed,  Grace  was  aware 
of  a  certain  quick  movement  that  was  not  quite  like 
his  first  gentleness.  He  was  evidently  in  haste  to  bo 
off  without  words. 


VIEWS;  ACROSS  AND  BACK.  451 

"  Now,  of  all  things !  "  resumed  the  voluble  house- 
lady,  as  he  dashed  across  the  street  again  with  only  a 
half -muttered,  unintelligible  reply  to  Grace's  eagerly 
begun  acknowledgment,  —  "to  think  he  should  go  like 
that,  as  if  a  gale  of  wind  had  took  him,  and  I  never 
so  much  as  saying  'I  'm  beholden, '  nor  finding  out  his 
name  to  call  him  by  it  again !  Well,  it  ain't  all  in 
salting  tails!  .You  may  n't  catch  the  bird  no  more, 
notwithstanding!  " 

"Why,  you  've  lost  your  crutch,  child,  so  you  have. 
And  to  be  sure,  there  's  the  opposite  gentleman  —  to 
think  I  shouldn't  be  able  to  call  him  like  a  Christian, 
after  all,  and  so  Christian  and  more  as  he  's  behaved, 
—  a-standing  on  the  other  corner  with  the  door  blowed 
to  and  the  latch  ketched,  and  no  hat  on,  and  the  pieces 
in  his  hand!  Maybe  he '11  come  back.  No,  there's 
old  Grossman,  and  he  's  got  in,  and  took  'em,  likewise. 
Well,  here  's  the  amberella." 

And  so  Grace  got  upstairs.  That  evening,  by  the 
bright  light  across  the  way  through  the  heedlessly  un 
shaded  window,  she  saw,  as  she  drew  down  her  own 
blind,  her  new-old  friend  without  a  name,  busy  with 
the  splintered  bits  of  her  old  crutch,  trying,  evidently, 
if  it  would  join.  But  he  shook  his  head  over  it,  and 
made  up  his  face  in  the  shape  of  a  whistle ;  and  she 
would  not  stand  watching,  so  she  pulled  the  cambric 
shade  down,  and  settled  herself  behind  it  at  her  work, 
with  many  little  curious  thoughts  glancing  through  her 
mind  as  to  what  he  might  do  next. 

Early  the  following  morning,  as  Mrs.  Hopeley  was 
lighting  her  fire  and  brushing  up  her  hearth  below, 
there  came  a  ring.  The  brisk  little  body  answered  it 
in  a  twinkling.  Yet,  quick  as  she  was,  the  opposite 
gentleman  was  over  opposite  again,  and  on  the  door- 
stone  sat  a  basket,  and  beside  it  a  wonderful  thing 
with  a  crutch- top  to  it,  — Grace's  very  old  crutch- 


452  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

top  with  the  worn  black  velvet  cover,  —  but  such  a 
stick!  A  slight,  dark,  rich,  strong  staff,  with  queer, 
delicate  carving  all  up  and  down  it,  and  a  smell  of 
strange  spicery  clinging  to  it,  and  effusing  even  in  the 
frosty  morning  air. 

"Well,  if  I  ain't  conundered,  now!  "  she  exclaimed, 
taking  them  up  with  a  sudden  hesitancy,  and  a  glance 
toward  old  Grossman's  closed  door  and  the  window 
above  it  where  the  curtain  ivas  down  this  time. 

"Grace,  here's  the  elegantest  thing!  Stop,  I'll 
bring  it  up  to  you,  and  take  away  the  amberella. 
And  a  big  basket  of  great  oranges  as  red  as  fire !  You 
never  see  sitch !  Come  all  in  a  whiff  and  gone  again 
like  the  what  's-his-name-on-two-sticks !  " 

There  were  tears  in  Grace's  eyes  as  she  held  the 
beautiful  staff  in  her  hand.  Such  a  thing  had  never 
happened  to  her  before  in  all  her  life..  There  was 
something  in  her  heart  as  she  received  this  gift  dropped 
for  her  at  her  door,  such  as  perhaps  never  stirred  in 
yours,  young  lady,  on  whose  table  waits  each  morning 
some  dainty  offering  of  homage,  and  who  count  up  your 
bouquets  and  your  lovers  together. 

She  should  never  lean  on  this  but  it  would  seem  to 
her  like  a  kindly  human  strength.  She  had  a  friend 
in  the  world ;  there  was  a  thought  for  her  in  a  great, 
generous  bosom ;  the  world  was  very  rich  to-day  for 
this  child  who  had  never  had  father  or  brother;  who 
would  never  have  a  lover. 

The  basket  was  to  go  back.  Grace  and  Mrs.  Hope- 
ley  decided  this,  and  the  girl  gathered  her  flowers,  — 
her  one  splendid  white  lily  with  its  golden  spike,  in 
the  broad  green  leaf  against  which  it  grew,  some 
tender  abutilons,  like  drops  of  redder  gold,  purple 
heliotropes  and  little  English  violets,  a  tea  rosebud, 
just  swelling  into  its  brief  perfection,  and  some  trail 
ing  bits  of  yellow  blossoming  vine,  —  and  laid  them  in 
it,  a  mute,  delicate  thanks. 


VIEWS;  ACROSS  AND  BACK.  453 

Mrs.  Hopeley  hoped  great  things  from  the  instant 
in  which  she  should  deliver  it.  For  the  first  time  in 
her  life  she  stood  upon  her  crusty  neighbor's  door-stone 
and  rung  a  summons. 

The  old  man  came. 

"  For  Mr.  , "  hesitating,  so  that  anybody  but 

old  Grossman  must  have  suggested  a  name.  But  he 
stood  with  his  sharp  nose  protruding  from  a  jealous 
crack,  and  waited  for  her  to  say  it  out  by  herself  if  she 
could,  or  give  it  up.  He  would  have  waited  a  week, 
morosely  reveling  in  her  discomfiture. 

"  For  the  opposite  —  the  upstairs  —  gentleman,  I 
mean, "  faltered  the  poor  woman,  all  of  a  quiver,  and 
in  utter  rout. 

Grossman  grunted,  and  took  it  in. 

"It  ain't  all  in  chances,  if  you  can't  turn  'em," 
sighed  Mrs.  Hopeley  to  herself,  recrossing.  "And 
there  's  some  old  sticks  would  chock  anybody's  wheels." 

"I  've  gin  it  in;  but  I  don't  know  who  to,  howbeit, 
more  nor  ever."  Mrs.  Hopeley's  adverbs  were  her 
colloquial  accomplishment.  They  effected  a  certain 
point  and  dazzle  by  their  recurrence,  like  skillful  dashes 
upon  printed  calico. 

After  this,  things  went  on  as  of  old.  The  "other 
gentleman, "  as  Mrs.  Hopeley  called  him,  in  her  bewil 
dered  paucity  of  knowledge,  in  contradistinction  to 
the  "opposite  gentleman,"  who  was  more  regularly 
opposite,  — the  gentleman,  to  Grace's  distinctive  per 
ception,  —  came ;  and  the  corner  room  was  bright  and 
cheery  for  many  weeks ;  then,  a  trunk  and  two  chests 
were  wheeled  away,  one  morning,  and  the  blinds  were 
shut. 

Mrs.  Hopeley  had  gone  out  to  market;  the  opposite 
gentleman  knew  this,  doubtless ;  for  he  came  very 
deliberately  across  the  street,  his  pipe  in  his  mouth, 
and  stopped  upon  the  widow's  doorstep.  Before  he 


454  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

rang,  Grace,  with  her  light  spring,  and  the  quick  tap 
ping  of  her  deftly  handled  crutch,  was  on  the  stairs ; 
and  as  he  rang,  she  opened  to  him. 

"I  'm  going  away,"  began  the  opposite  gentleman, 
and  paused. 

"It's  very  good  of  you" —  He  lifted  his  eyes, 
rather,  at  this. 

"To  come  and  let  me  say  good-by,  I  mean,  and 
thank  you, "  said  Grace  hurriedly  and  impetuously, 
following  up  the  awkward  ambiguity  of  her  first  words. 
"I  have  wanted  to  so  much." 

"I  came  to  see  if  you  'd  do  something  for  me  while 
I'm  gone,3'  said  the  neighbor-at- intervals,  ignoring 
the  thanks.  "I  'd  be  glad  —  if  you  haven't  any  dis 
liking  to  such  —  that  you  'd  take  care  of  my  parrot  for 
me.  She  's  lonesome  when  she  's  nobody  to  talk  to." 

Grace's  eyes  glistened  with  a  quick  pleasure. 
Something  childlike  in  it,  of  pure  delight,  as  well  as 
warm  readiness  of  womanly  gratitude.  A  parrot  had 
been  to  her  childhood  a  thing  of  bright,  fairy-like 
mystery.  To  have  it  there  among  her  flowers,  —  to 
hear  its  half-human  chatter,  —  to  teach  it  some  new 
phrases,  —  to  stroke  its  gold-green  plumage,  and  feed 
it  from  her  fingers  as  she  had  watched  her  friend  do, 
—  why  it  would  be  a  joy,  —  and  she  said  so. 

"Then  I '11  bring  it  over." 

But  coming  back,  cage  in  hand,  he  met  Mrs.  Hope- 
ley  herself,  with  basket  and  brown  paper  parcel. 

"Good  morning,  Mr. ?  " 

"Good  morning,  ma'am.  I  've  brought  my  par 
rot  for  your  daughter.  She  '11  keep  it  for  me,  she 
says,  if  you  've  no  objection.  I  'm  going  away." 

"  Look  here,  sir !  "  cried  the  over- aggrieved  woman, 
bursting  forth.  "I  guess  we  don't  understand  one 
another,  clear.  She  ain't  my  daughter." 

"For  Miss  —  Grace  then,"   said  the  strange  man, 


VIEWS;  ACEOSS  AND  BACK.  455 

with  a  sort  of  difficulty,  but  never  caring  a  whit  as  to 
Grace  who.  No  interchange  of  facts  to  be  looked  for 
here. 

Mrs.  Hopeley  sighed  a  loud  sigh  of  impatience. 

"Oh  dear!  it  was  bad  enough  before;  but  this  is 
getting  to  be  like  the  House  that  Jack  built !  " 

"If  it 's  any  trouble  "  — began  the  neighbor,  quite 
abashed. 

"Lor  no,  it  ain't  the  parrot.  Not  in  the  least. 
But  I  'm  bound  to  say  I  've  been  put  to  great  incon 
veniences  along  of  you ;  and  to  such  roundabouts  as  is 
very  tiresome.  The  opposite  gentleman  was  bad 
enough;  but  the  opposite  gentleman's  parrot,  and  all 
that,  why  you  see  it  grows  bigger.  And  the  kinder 
you  are,  the  more  so.  And,  moreover,  after  you  're 
gone  away,  it  can't  be  the  opposite  gentleman,  withal. 
It 's  the  want  of  the  name,  sir.  You  could  n't  so 
much  as  get  the  good  of  a  tin  dipper  without  one." 

A  half  smile  showed  a  glimpse  of  the  man's  white 
teeth ;  while  a  shade,  at  the  same  instant,  seemed  to 
flit  over  the  eyes. 

"My  name's  never  been  a  very  lucky  one,"  he 
said.  "The  bird's  name's  Poll.  Won't  that  do? 
And  as  to  the  rest  of  it,  I  shall  be  '  opposite  '  enough. 
I  'm  going  to  China." 

He  put  the  bright  ring  of  the  cage  into  Grace's  hand, 
as  he  spoke,  and  turned  off.  Before  Mrs.  Hopeley 
could  find  her  next  words,  he  was  striding  down  the 
street,  and  had  mixed  himself  and  disappeared  in 
the  busy,  crowded,  shifting  line  of  pedestrians  that 
streamed  up  and  down,  to  and  from  a  great  centre  of 
labor  and  trade. 

He  could  not  forget  that  a  dozen  years  ago  the 
name  of  Edward  Blackmere  had  been  put  in  capitals, 
and  cried  through  these  very  streets,  as  the  name  of  a 
man  "arrested  for  the  brutal  murder  of  his  wife." 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

OPPOSITE    AGAIN;    AT    THE    LESSER    DISTANCE. 

A  YOUNG  lady  in  a  crape  bonnet  and  veil,  at  Mrs. 
Hopeley's  door.  A  pleasant  voice  at  the  stair-head 
welcoming  her,  as  the  door  was  opened  by  the  cheery 
widow,  and  the  comer  put  aside  the  folds  from  her 
face  and  entered.  It  was  Sarah  Gair,  come  for  .her 
"bit  of  brown  bread." 

One  year  ago,  there  had  been  a  little  paragraph  in 
the  Selport  papers  about  "one  of  our  most  respected 
citizens."  It  had  been  headed,  "Sudden  Death." 
Jane  Gair  was  a  widow. 

A  widow,  with  less  of  worldly  fortune  than  she  was 
allowed  to  know;  for  Mr.  Gair's  property,  like  that 
of  many  a  man  stricken  suddenly  down  in  the  midst  of 
business  risks  and  complications,  had  dwindled  in  the 
"  settling, "  and  Jane,  a  confirmed  nervous  invalid,  to 
whom  quiet  of  mind  was  vitally  essential,  was  simply 
to  be  waited  on  and  provided  for,  —  not  burdened 
with  any  care  or  doubt.  Reuben  Gair's  confidential 
friend  and  lawyer,  consulting  only  with  her  young 
daughter,  and  making  smooth  and  comfortable  reports 
to  the  widow,  when  she  was  able  to  attend,  managed 
everything. 

There  had  been  two  or  three  unfavorable  years; 
there  had  been  failures  and  bad  debts;  losses  at  sea. 
Mr.  Gair's  death  had  happened,  or  resulted,  at  one  of 
those  critical  points  of  a  mercantile  history,  when  life 
and  credit  are  everything;  when  the  wheels  of  a  great 
enterprise  are  in  full  and  complicated  revolution,  and, 
continuing  so,  may  work  out  safety;  but,  stopping, 


OPPOSITE  AGAIN;  LESSER  DISTANCE.    457 

there  comes  ruin,  Out  of  all  the  merchant's  various 
assets,  —  including  twenty  thousand  dollars  of  his 
wife's  inheritance,  from  the  sale  of  real  estate,  which 
had  been  merged  temporarily  with  his  business  risks, 
and  smaller  sums,  invested  with  moneys  of  his  own, 
in  certain  high-paying  shares,  —  there  was  a  bare  nom 
inal  surplus,  when  debts  were  paid.  The  house  in  Hill 
Street  remained  to  them;  but  there  was  a  heavy  mort 
gage  upon  it,  with  only  two  years  to  run.  A  present 
home  over  their  heads,  and  the  interest  of  some  fifteen 
thousand  dollars,  remaining  to  Mrs.  Gair,  was  all. 

Plainly,  the  only  thing  to  be  done  was  to  sell  their 
house,  pay  off  the  mortgage,  add  the  residue  of  the 
money  to  what  they  had,  and  go  where  they  could  live 
upon  it.  But  this  could  not  be  done  immediately. 
Mr.  Gair  had  died  in  the  spring;  the  summer  was 
over  before  affairs  were  thoroughly  made  clear;  and 
the  only  way  to  avoid  a  dangerous  shock  to  the  widow 
was  to  make  her  health  itself  the  pretext  for  removal. 

"Next  summer  we  can  do  it,"  said  Say.  "For  the 
winter  we  must  manage  somehow." 

Summer  and  winter  made  a  year.  Two  thirds  of 
their  dividends  were  absorbed  by  mortgage  interest ; 
and  their  capital  diminished  by  the  cost  of  their  year's 
living.  And  all  this  was  a  secret  pain ;  an  unshared 
dread  and  burden. 

Sarah  Gair  came  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  her 
bright  youth,  to  know  the  grinding  of  that  hardest 
kind  of  poverty,  which  is  not  to  be  confessed  and  grap 
pled  with  openly,  but  which  gnaws  in  secret  under  a 
comfortable  outside;  demanding  retrenchment  as  the 
sole  salvation,  when  it  is  hard  to  see  how  an  adequate 
retrenchment  can  begin.  And  Mrs.  Gair's  whims,  her 
invalid  comforts,  medical  attendance,  and  nursing, 
were  expensive. 

It  was  well  known  in  the  city  that  "Gair  had  not 


458  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

left  so  much  as  was  expected ;  "  but  nobody  supposed 
them  poor;  "she  had  money,"  they  said;  and  Say 
was  proud;  she  would  not  even  let  the  kind  aunts  at 
Hilbury  know  that  a  piece  of  the  patrimony  had  melted 
away.  They  lived  on ;  her  mother  must  not  be  worried ; 
and  she  bore  what  there  was  to  bear  alone. 

Her  mother  had  her  nurse  and  lived  in  her  own 
room ;  she  did  not  know  that  there  was  only  a  girl 
hired  "for  general  housework,"  to  help  Say  in  all  the 
rest  of  the  house;  and  that  the  delicacies  she  called 
for,  at  capricious  hours,  according  to  her  uncertain 
appetite,  were  mostly  prepared  by  Say's  own  hands, 
while  she,  perhaps,  was  fretting  that  she  did  not  stay 
and  read  to  her,  or  bring  her  work  and  sit  where  she 
could  see  her. 

"She  was  all  pain,"  she  said;  and  possessed  with 
restlessness.  The  very  bed  was  full,  it  seemed  to  her, 
of  misery,  when  she  lay  there.  It  had  got  into  the 
pillows  and  blankets,  like  a  plague ;  it  was  associated 
with  every  line  and  color  on  the  walls ;  with  the  folds 
of  the  curtains,  and  the  pattern  of  the  carpet.  She 
had  the  furniture  moved  about,  and  changed,  to  break 
the  fancy  up.  She  was  put  into  another  room,  while 
her  own  was  freshly  papered.  This  had  been  done 
twice,  already,  since  her  husband's  death.  There 
were  repetitions  in  the  first  designs,  that  wearied  her 
so.  She  had  got  the  limit  of  the  block,  and  knew 
just  where  the  pattern  began  again ;  and  the  pain,  she 
said,  came  in  twinges  with  it. 

This  was  Jane  Gair  at  forty-six;  who,  at  thirty, 
had  been  the  fair,  unworn,  happy- tempered  woman, 
who  took  all  things  easily,  and  for  whom  the  world 
went  smoothly  round. 

Spring  had  come  round  again;  the  early  spring, 
whose  balmy  days  of  promise  alternate  with  chill  and 
storm.  Mrs.  Gair  alternated  to  better  and  worse  with 


OPPOSITE  AGAIN;  LESSEE  DISTANCE.     459 

the  weather.  Say  thought  and  planned;  she  could 
think  of  nothing  but  Hilbury;  but  she  had  only  men 
tioned  it  once,  and  her  mother  had  had  a  very  bad  day 
after  it.  "She  never  could. go  there;  the  high  air  of 
the  hills  would  kill  her;  she  wondered  Say  thought  of 
such  a  thing.  Couldn't  they  go  abroad?  She  should 
be  better  when  the  warm  weather  came ;  and  she  would 
get  away  from  this  miserable  New  England  climate 
altogether."  Say  sighed,  and  could  say  no  more. 
What  ought  she  to  do?  The  end  must  come  some 
time,  and  her  mother  must  know;  it  would  be  worse 
then,  for  there  would  no  longer  be  anything  to  save. 

When  she  could  get  away  for  an  hour,  she  went  for 
her  "bit  of  brown  bread."  She  had  got  an  hour  now. 

The  day  was  lovely;  a  jewel  of  warmth  and  sun 
shine  set  between  bleak  jaggednesses  of  March  misery. 
Grace's  window  was  wide  open;  there  were  crocuses, 
yellow  and  purple,  in  the  long,  narrow  box  upon  the 
ledge;  the  parrot  gyrated  incessantly  about  her  cage, 
clinging  with  clumsy  beak  and  claw,  and  "picking  her 
way, "  literally,  with  slow  creep,  up  and  down,  and 
around ;  chattering,  like  a  saucy  child,  all  the  phrases 
that  she  knew;  whistling  to  the  boys  in  the  street; 
crying,  like  the  "  thousand  cats ;  "  comporting  her 
self,  altogether,  with  the  utmost  self-assertion  and 
obstreperousness . 

"My  —  good  —  friend!  How  d'  ye  do?  Thank 
you !  Thank  you !  Gone  to  China !  Welcome  home ! 
What's  your  name?  What  's  your  name?"  The 
last  query  had  been  wickedly  put  into  the  bird's  mouth 
by  the  baffled  Mistress  Hopeley,  greatly  to  the  chagrin 
and  trouble  of  Grace,  who  had  striven  in  vain  to  make 
her  drop  and  forget  it. 

Say  sat  down  in  the  sunshine  among  the  flowers. 
A  look  of  rest  came  over  her  face.  A  very  sweet  face 
it  had  grown  to  be,  though  a  little  of  the  old  bright" 


460  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

ness  was  somehow  gone.  She  had  used  to  seem  like 
nothing  so  much  as  a  flower  springing  to  a  breeze ; 
there  were  such  quick  little  graceful  tossings  of  the 
well-poised  head,  such  slight,  incessant  motions  of  life 
and  gladness,  in  which  the  fairness  of  feature  and 
lovely  coloring  gleamed  like  that  beauty  of  a  wind- 
swayed  blossom.  Now,  there  was  a  quietness,  an  en 
durance,  the  patient  look  of  womanhood  with  its  bur 
den  on.  Looking  at  the  young  creature,  you  felt  that 
the  first  glow  of  youth,  that  mostly  goes  quickly  enough, 
was  already  gone  from  her. 

"I  'm  glad  to  get  here,  Grace.  You  don't  know 
the  comfort  it  is.  How  sunny  you  are,  to-day!  " 

"Aren't  we?  It  's  sunny  all  down  the  street  to 
where  the  trees  are  budding  to  make  my  summer  'view  ' 
again.  Isn't  it  bright  and  sunny  over  the  way?  It 's 
only  at  this  time  in  the  day  that  it  ever  really  is.  And 
the  blinds  are  opened.  He  's  coming  back,  Say!  " 

"How  much  you  think  of  that  strange  friend  of 
yours,  Grace !  " 

"I  haven't  many  friends,  you  know.  And  only  to 
think  of  one  that  is  a  real  friend,  living  anywhere  on 
the  earth,  with  a  thought  for  me,  — it 's  a  great  joy! 
I  think  it  is  a  way  God  gives  his  own  love  to  us." 

"Just  twice  he  has  spoken  to  you.  And  then  he 
went  away,  and  has  been  gone  a  year.  It 's  a  queer 
friendship,  Gracie." 

"It  is  just  the  friendship  that  does  me  the  most 
good.  I  don't  think  I  could  quite  bear  having  a  very 
good  friend  near  me  all  the  time,  like  people  who  have 
been  used  to  it.  A  little  lasts  me  a  great  while ;  and 
I  want  my  quiet  thoughts  about  it.  It 's  like  those 
weeks  at  Hilbury.  I  don't  think  I  could  have  borne 
much  more.  I  wanted  to  run  back  here  to  my  little 
lonely  nest,  with  the  treasure  I  had  got.  I  don't  know 
what  I  shall  ever  do  about  heaven,  Say !  " 


OPPOSITE  AGAIN;  LESSEE  DISTANCE.    461 

"I'm  glad  you've  had  Hilbury,"  said  Say.  "I 
knew  Aunt  Joanna  would  remember.  I  wish  I  could 
see  her  in  her  home;  but  I  don't  know  when  I  shall 
ever  get  there,  now." 

"It's  as  lovely  as  anything  can  be,"  said  Grace. 
"And  we  had  such  busy  work  to  make  it !  There  was 
nearly  everything  to  do;  for  there  'd  only  been  com 
mon  tidiness  for  years  and  years ;  nobody  to  really  put 
a  life  into  it  till  she  came.  And  it  kept  smiling  out 
so,  with  every  new  thing  and  touch;  and  yet,  the  old 
home  expression  stayed  through  all.  'It  was  the  glo 
rified  body  of  the  old  home,'  Mr.  Hartshorne  said. 
Such  a  grand  man  and  woman  as  they  are !  They  would 
glorify  any  place.  And  each  of  them  thinks  it  is  all 
the  other.  I  'm  only  puzzled  to  think  how  they  en 
dure  such  happiness,  when  it  nearly  broke  my  heart  to 
stay  and  see  it.  It 's  well  there  are  still  places  for 
such  as  I,  who  can't  bear  being  too  glad." 

"Grace!  Oh,  Miss  Gair!  I  beg  your  pardon.  I 
forgot,  indeed.  My  head  's  been  so  full  of  the  spring 
cleaning,  which  is  just  the  most  muddling-up  thing  in 
the  world,  indubitably." 

"Did  you  want  me,  Mrs.  Hopeley?  "  asked  Grace. 

"It  was  only  the  old  carpet.  It 's  been  shuck  and 
brought  in,  and  it 's  tore  rather  more  than  I  looked 
for.  I  thought  if  you  weren't  too  busy,  peradventure, 
—  but  I  see  you  can't." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Hopeley,  it  isn't  that  I'm  very  busy, 
but  let  it  be  till  to-morrow,  please.  It 's  sure  to  rain 
after  this  pleasant  weather ;  and  we  must  be  in  the  win 
dow  to-day,  Polly  and  I,  when  our  friend  comes  back. 
I  'm  sure  it 's  all  the  getting  home  there  is  for  him." 

"You  're  sure  of  the  most  unprovable  sort  of  things, 
Grace  Lowder,  f orevermore, "  said  the  widow  in  her 
cheery  way,  coming  over  to  the  girl's  side.  '  "There  's 
gome  bird  in  the  air  besides  Polly  that  tells  you  stories, 


462  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

with  neither  a  for  nor  a  because  to  them.  The  carpet 's 
nothing,  to  be  sure ;  it  can  wait  as  well  as  not,  for  a 
rainy  day,  only —  Well,  now!  as  true  as  I  'm  a  living 
sinner !  " 

"Gone  to  China!  Welcome  home!  Thank  you, 
thank  you!  What's  your  name?  What's  your 
name?  " 

Edward  Blackmere  stood  upon  the  step  of  Cross- 
man's  door.  He  looked  up,  giving  a  low,  familiar 
whistle,  whereto  the  parrot  responded  writh  vocifera 
tion. 

"  Grace !  "  cried  Say,  shrinking  back  suddenly  into 
her  chair,  "is  that  "  — 

"That  is  my  friend,"  said  Grace,  with  simple,  joy 
ous  warmth ;  her  beaming  face  turned  full  toward  him, 
with  a  timid  inclination  of  the  head,  to  which  he  an 
swered  with  a  chivalrous  lifting  of  his  cap,  and  a  flash 
of  soft,  unused  light  in  the  dark,  upraised  eyes.  They 
were  gray  hairs  he  uncovered,  saluting  the  young  girl ; 
but  the  instant,  happy  look  was  new  and  young  as 
hers. 

Say,  by  a  quick  motion,  let  fall  the  folds  of  crape, 
to  shield  her  side-face  from  the  sunlight. 

"And  there,"  said  Grace,  still  looking  out,  "is  his 
friend,  the  gentleman." 

Say  glanced  again,  and  saw  that  it  was  Gershom 
Vorse. 

Nearly  four  years  it  had  been  since  she  had  seen 
him.  It  gave  her  a  quick,  bewildering  sensation,  see 
ing  him  now  and  in  such  manner.  Like  that  which 
one  has  at  times,  at  sudden  waking  from  a  reverie,  in 
which  familiar  things  have  been  resolved  to  their  ideal 
forms;  in  which  one's  actual  surroundings  have  been 
the  impalpable  scenery  of  one's  dreams;  when,  with  a 
flash,  one  starts  to  find  them  real  and  at  hand. 

From  her  inner  life  he  had  never  been  absent.      She 


OPPOSITE  AGAIN;  LESSER  DISTANCE.     463 

had  waited  with  that  strange  patience  that  only  women, 
and,  of  women,  perhaps  a  few,  not  all,  abide  in ;  put 
ting  by  the  hope  that  had  never,  indeed,  been  born ; 
nerved  on  one  side  by  a  human,  feminine  indignation 
against  weakness  of  sorrow;  feeling  that  she  had  been 
unjustly  dealt  with ;  half  cured  of  her  love,  or  the  sting 
of  it,  by  a  tender  contempt  of  the  warp  and  prejudice 
that  had  wounded  it,  and  that  must,  some  time,  be  done 
away;  of  the  soul  that  could  so  be  narrowed  by  mis 
take;  a  little  of  her  reverence,  which  is  the  essence  of 
pure  womanly  passion,  gone  from  her  thought  of  him, 
whom  she  saw  not  nobly  reverent  and  believing  toward 
heaven  and  fellow  -  men,  —  for  a  woman  ever  most 
warmly  reveres,  most  nearly  worships,  the  manhood 
that  stands  lowliest  before  God;  yet  looking  always 
onward  to  something  that,  in  the  long  history  of  their 
lives,  here  or  in  heaven,  should  surely  come ;  knowing 
that  they  were  not  done  with  each  other  until  God 
willed,  and  that  the  crooked  should  first  be  made 
straight,  and  that  which  she  had  prayed  for  she  should 
be  given  to  do. 

A  strange,  still  excitement  stirred  her,  looking  down 
upon  him,  herself  unseen,  unthought  of,  claiming  him 
in  her  heart  from  these  neighbors  who  talked  of  and 
guessed  about  him,  not  knowing  even  his  name.  This 
was  his  home,  then.  This  was  his  fixed,  separate  life, 
and  the  place  of  it.  A  pang  came  with  that  thought. 
A  jealousy  of  people  who  had  to  do  with  him,  she  be 
ing  shut  out.  Of  old  Grossman,  even,  who  opened  the 
door  to  him,  and  to  whom  he  nodded  as  he  went  in. 
He  was  set  off,  suddenly,  into  a  strangerhood.  He 
was  wholly  gone  away  from  her,  from  them  all.  Gone 
away  utterly,  though  making  for  himself  an  abiding- 
place  here  in  the  same  town,  with  the  distance  of  only 
a  few  streets  between  them ;  a  distance  he  had  never 
crossed  to  come  to  her. 


464  THE  GAYWORTHYS 

A  chill  began  to  come  over  her ;  over  her  old  feeling 
for  him,  close,  even,  upon  the  first  quick,  warm  trem 
ble  of  surprise.  She  had  not  dreamed  of  this.  She 
had  thought  of  him  on  board  his  ship,  —  away  in  for 
eign  lands,  —  at  the  farm  in  Hilbury ;  the  old  memo 
ries  had  held  their  places,  and  the  old  scenes  were 
haunted.  But  this  new  place,  —  these  altered  sur 
roundings,  —  this  strange,  isolated,  secret  living?  It 
made  a  difference.  It  touched  rudely  upon  the  old 
charm.  Place  and  association  have  curiously  to  do 
with  human  sentiments.  Seeing  him  here,  it  was  pos 
sible  to  see  him  in  a  new  light;  to  discern  more 
sharply  that  to  which  his  character  had  grown.  His 
very  way  of  life,  when  it  was  a  thing  for  him  to 
choose,  had  become  an  embodied  distrust.  It  was 
unworthy.  Say  felt  a  something  widening  between 
them  that  was  worse  than  time,  or  distance,  or  mis 
take.  Felt  this  with  one  side  her  nature,  that  recoiled 
from  one  side  his,  even  while  the  old  tenderness 
claimed  him  jealously,  yearned  over  him,  wrought 
itself  into  a  very  pain  of  unrest,  seeing  him  so  near 
again,  and  yet  so  far,  far  off. 

Five  minutes  had  gone  by  while  she  sat  and  thought 
these  thoughts.  And  then  Grace  Lowder  turned  her 
happy  face  round  on  her,  and  saw  nothing,  —  only 
a  tired,  troubled  look;  a  flush  replacing  the  first  pale 
ness  ;  and  a  restless  shine  in  the  eyes. 

"I  've  been  selfish;   tell  me  your  worries." 

She  turned  wholly  round  as  she  spoke ;  and  reaching 
her  hand  along  the  wajnscot,  dropped  herself  off  the 
little  raised  window  dais  to  Say's  side. 

"Tell  me  your  worries,  dear." 

"It's  no  use,"  said  Say,  with  a  piteous,  half -ab 
sent  impatience.  "They  can't  be  told.  Unless  I 
could  tell  you  all  my  life,  and  what  makes  them 
worries. " 


OPPOSITE  AGAIN;  LESSEE  DISTANCE.     465 

"All  our  lives  we  can't  tell  each  other  if  we  would. 
Every  one  of  us  is  a  secret,  after  all.  But  the  little 
bits  we  can  tell,  —  they  are  comforts  between  friends." 

"I  can't  tell  you  the  last  ten  minutes,  Grace,  and 
what  has  come  to  me  sitting  here  beside  you." 

Come  to  her  in  her  thoughts,  of  course,  while  Grace 
had  selfishly  kept  her  waiting ;  nothing  else  had  come 
to  her;  no  other  possibility  entered  the  little  needle 
woman's  mind.  So  secret,  truly,  are  our  lives. 

"Tell  me  just  what  you  choose,  dear.  Tell  me  no 
thing,  if  you  like.  But  let  me  comfort  you."  So 
she  petted  and  soothed  her,  mutely,  and  stroked  her 
like  a  tired  child,  holding  down  her  head  beside  her, 
but  not  looking  her  any  more  in  the  face,  till  the  tears 
came  quietly  into  Say's  restless  eyes,  and  brought  their 
sorrowful  calm  with  them. 

"I  must  go  back  to  my  mother,"  she  said,  and  rose 
up,  brushing  the  wet  off  her  cheeks,  and  laying  hold  of 
the  long  crape  veil  to  draw  it  down. 

She  felt  as  if  she  had  cheated  Grace  of  something 
that  belonged  to  her.  Of  this  knowledge  that  she 
could  have  given  her.  But  then  a  bitter,  unreasonable 
feeling  came,  —  of  what  did  Grace  cheat  her  ?  What, 
rather,  usurp  from  her,  —  sitting  there  in  her  window, 
among  her  flowers,  and  making  friends  across  the  way  ? 
Seeing  them  come  out  and  in,  —  him  and  Gershom,  — 
while  she  must  go  and  make  no  sign;  she,  to  whom 
they  belonged  by  the  thought  and  knowledge  of  years, 
—  by  the  love  of  a  life  ? 

Gershom  Vorse  saw  a  figure,  thick-veiled,  robed  in 
black,  come  down  the  widow's  step  and  turn  away, 
quickly.  An  employer  of  the  little  seamstress,  Black- 
mere's  window-friend,  he  thought.  Come  to  order 
more  black  bravery.  "What  a  parade  grief  makes  to 
hide  itself  behind !  What  a  bother  of  stitches  to  sew 
up  a  heart-rent !  If  people  really  believed  half  they 


466  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

pretend  to,  —  humph !  "  Mostly  to  himself,  the  last 
syllable  only  aloud,  the  cynic  said  this ;  and  the  black- 
robed  figure  passed  on,  out  of  sight ;  the  heart  carried 
a  thought  of  him  in  it,  —  a  thought  of  pain,  —  as  it 
had  carried  this  many  a  year.  And  no  little  bird  flew 
by,  to  tell  him  so. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

EBEN'S  DISCOURSE. 

SOME  one  had  already  rung,  and  was  waiting,  when 
Say  came  up  the  steps  in  Hill  Street. 

A  tall,  rough  man,  in  a  snuff-brown  country  suit, 
and  a  snuffier  brown  stiff  felt  hat ;  who  made  room  for 
her  as  she  came  beside  him',  and  eyed  her  curiously. 
Say  had  her  latch-key ;  it  would  not  do  to  call  Honey 
unnecessarily  to  the  door.  She  made  her  own  entrance, 
and  then  turned  round  inquiringly. 

Either  for  the  act,  announcing  herself  at  home,  or 
from  the  putting  back  of  her  veil,  giving  him  a  better 
sight  of  her  face,  the  stranger  showed  a  sudden  recog 
nition.  He  thrust  forth  a  hand,  bare  and  brown  as 
everything  else  about  him. 

" '  T  is  Say !  I '  11  be  —  buttered, "  in  a  whisper,  — 
"if  it  ain't!" 

"I'm  not  sure, — I  don't  know,"  —  hesitated 
Say,  a  little  frightened,  drawing  back. 

"Who  I  be?  S'pose  likely  you  don't.  I  did  n't 
recognize  you,  at  the  first  go  off.  You  've  growed,  'n' 
I  'm  altered,  some.  Look  again,  though,  'n'  I  guess 
you'll  fetch  it!  " 

"Eben!" 

"Ezer!  That's  it,  pat  as  Yankee  Doodle.  Mo 
ther  to  home  ?  " 

"Come  in,  Eben.  Mother  's  at  home;  but  she 
never  sees  company.  She  's  very  feeble." 

"Sho!  used  to  be  hearty  enough.  Guess  she  '11  see 
me,  though,  when  you  tell  her.  Say  I  've  come  clear 
from  Illinois,  round  by  way  o'  Hilbury.  That  '11 
fetch  her." 


468  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

Say's  eyes  opened  wide  at  the  man's  manner.  She 
ushered  him  in  with  dignity. 

"I  '11  tell  her,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  that  set  aside 
further  discussion  and  explanation. 

She  returned  after  some  minutes,  with  the  same 
quiet,  unmoved  air,  to  say  to  him,  without  apparent 
admission  of  anything  to  be  wondered  at,  that  which 
did,  secretly,  most  profoundly  astonish  herself. 

"Mother  will  see  you  upstairs  in  about  half  an 
hour." 

"Whew!"  Eben  whistled.  "Folks  don't  think 
much  o'  half  hours,  more  'n  o'  half  dollars,  here  'n 
the  city,  't  seems!  " 

Say  took  no  notice.  If  he  had  come  differently, 
she  would  have  had  a  hundred  things  to  say  to  Eben, 
associated  as  he  was  with  her  childish  remembrances 
and  pleasures ;  to  ask  of  Huldah ;  and  of  their  Western 
home.  It  was  not  pride,  or  f orgetfulness ;  but  it  was 
the  confident  assertion  of  this  man's  presence,  here, 
after  such  an  interval  of  years;  it  was  the  almost  in 
sult,  with  which  he  seemed  to  imply  that  her  mother 
would  have  no  choice  but  to  see  him  at  his  demand ; 
her  mother,  who  saw  nobody ;  whom  nobody  ventured, 
for  a  moment,  to  disturb.  It  was  a  dark  significance 
behind  all  thia,  which  touched  upon,  and  joined  itself 
to  those  secret,  terrible,  vague  thoughts  of  something 
that  made  Hilbury  terrible  to  her  mother;  something 
which  Aunt  Prue  suspected;  a  thing  the  clear  know 
ledge  of  which  she  herself  shrunk  from,  with  a  pain  of 
apprehension ;  yet  the  knowledge  of  which  she  felt  was 
sure  to  come ;  a  thing  that  hers  was,  somehow,  at  last, 
to  be  the  hand  to  lay  hold  of;  to  set  right. 

"You  can  look  at  the  books,  if  you  please,"  she 
said,  and  went  away. 

Eben  was  shrewd  enough  to  understand. 

"  'T  ain't  her  fault,"  he  said,  as  he  was  left  alone. 


EBEN'S  DISCOURSE.  469 

"No  wonder  her  grit 's  up.  It 's  clear  sarciness  to 
her.  Well,  I  'm  let  in,  and  she  '11  see  me.  I  know 
now  I  'm  right;  and,  by  Davy  Crockett,  I  '11  go 
ahead!" 

"I  'm  very  ill,  Eben,  and  can  bear  very  little;  but 
I  couldn't  refuse  an  old  friend." 

Jane  Gair,  sitting  in  her  invalid  chair,  with  her  in 
valid  gown  and  cap  on,  said  this,  as  Eben  Hatch  came 
in  with  Say.  She  had  sent  her  nurse  down  after  being 
made  ready,  telling  her  she  might,  if  she  chose,  go  out 
for  a  turn  in  the  fresh  air  while  she  sat  up ;  Say  would 
be  with  her. 

Now,  she  gave  Say  an  errand  to  the  cook.  There 
was  to  be  a  partridge  broiled  for  her,  and  she  would 
like  some  wine  jelly  made.  These  things  involved 
more  than  direction,  as  Jane  knew.  She  was  left  alone 
with  her  odd  visitor. 

"How  is  Huldah,  Eben?     And  where  is  she?  " 

"She's  in  Hilbury,  at  this  present  speaking;  but 
that  ain't  the  business  in  hand.  I  don't  mean  to  worry 
you  about  my  affairs." 

Jane  Gair  leaned  back  languidly.  But  her  eyes 
were  keen  with  questioning  as  she  turned  them  upon 
Eben. 

"Have  you  any  special  errand  to  me?  "  she  asked. 

"Yes,  marm.  I  've  got  sunthin'  to  say.  A  short 
discourse,  with  only  two  pints  to  it.  A  head  an'  a 
tail." 

All  but  her  eyes  expressed  the  utmost  quiet  and  las 
situde.  Her  whole  figure  lay  passive.  Her  face  had 
the  weary  look  of  long  weakness  and  pain.  But  the 
eyes  fixed  themselves,  with  a  sharp  kindling  in  them, 
on  the  man's  face. 

"It 's  only  this,  Mis'  Gair,  —  the  head  of  it.  Them 
that  hides  can  find.  And  they  'd  better  be  spry." 

"I  don't  understand  you  in  the  least."     Jane  Gair 


470  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

spoke  slowly,  after  a  pause;  her  tone  was  the  tone  of 
uncomprehending,  slightly  surprised  indifference;  but 
the  fire  in  the  eyes  flared. 

"An'  I  come  across  sunthin'  t'  other  day  that  struck 
me  up  with  a  new  start.  'The  Lord  will  bring  to  light 
the  hidden  things  of  darkness.'  Fust  C'rinthians, 
fourth,  fifth.  He  says  so.  And  He  mostly  fetches 
it!  That 's  the  tail!  " 

The  eyes  blenched  and  the  lids  fell.  There  was  a 
twitching  of  the  muscles  that  she  could  not  help.  She 
sat  there  quivering  inwardly  with  a  detected  shame. 
Eben  never  took  his  look  from  her;  and  she  knew  it. 

Presently  she  leaned  forward,  with  a  quick  anger  in 
her  movement,  and  raised  her  face  again ;  angry,  also, 
now. 

"I  think  you 're  crazy,  Ebenezer  Hatch."  Spoken 
quite  quietly ;  the  anger  only  in  face  and  motion.  The 
woman  was  half  controlled ;  half  self -betrayed. 

"No,  you  don't.  You  did  n't  say  that  quick  enough. 
An'  I  would  n't  talk  any  more,  jest  now.  'T  ain't  good 
for  you.  I  guess  the  best  thing  you  could  do  would  be 
to  go  to  Hilbury,  by'm  by.  You  might  get  hold  o' 
sunthin'  there  to  your  advantage  —  besides  country 
air." 

"  Is  this  all  you  have  to  say  ?  "  It  was  an  effort  at 
dignity;  but  the  cowering  of  the  soul  trembled  in  the 
tones. 

"Yes,  marm.  Head,  an'  tail,  an'  application. 
Meetin  's  out."  He  rose  and  buttoned  up  the  snuff- 
brown  coat,  and  stood  twirling  by  the  rim  the  snuff- 
brown  hat. 

"It  is  nothing  to  me.  You  are  either  crazy  or  mis 
taken." 

"Come,  now!  That  air  won't  do!"  said  Eben, 
with  the  same  drawl  of  imperturbability  that  he  had 
all  along  maintained ;  seating  himself  again,  with  arms 


EBEN'S  DISCOUESE.  471 

across  his  knees,  twirling  the  hat  between  them,  in  his 
hands ;  his  head  leaned  forward,  and  his  face  turned 
confidentially  toward  Mrs.  Gair. 

"I've  either  told  you  the  livin'  truth,  yer  know; 
an'  your  conscience  says  the  same ;  or  else  I  've  sarced 
you  within  an  inch  o'  your  life,  an'  that  air  bell 's 
ben  rung,  an'  I'm  bein'  turned  out  on  the  sidewalk; 
which  don't  appear.  Now,  yer  see,  I  might  ha'  be 
gun  at  t'  other  end;  and  worked  it  back  to  you;  which 
might  not  ha'  ben  pleasant;  but  I  thought  I  'd  take  it 
reg'lar,  an'  begin  at  the  beginnin'.  Mebbe  't  was  a 
mistake,  though.  It 's  hard  to  ravel  a  stockin'  the 
same  way  't  was  knit.  Old  Parson  Fairbrother  kep'  a 
journal."  He  went  on  meditatively,  twirling  the  hat, 
and  taking  his  eyes  away  from  Jane,  to  fix  them 
thoughtfully  on  the  carpet  between  his  feet.  "With 
some  view  to  the  chance  of  a  me-more.  An'  them 
kind  o'  journals  is  allers  full  o'  reflections.  I  don't 
s'pose  he  did  nothin'  athout  moralizin'  over  it.  Sun- 
thin'  in  this  fashion,  likers  not:  'June  27th,  18 — . 
Advised  an'  strengthened  Brother  G.  in  a  just  act. 
Set  my  hand  to  it,  with  him.  By  the  promptin'  o' 
the  Lord,  the  widder  an'  the  fatherless  are  pervided 
for.'  'N'  so  on.  It  's  an  improvin'  thing  to  look  it 
over,  seem'  't  the  me-more  ain't  writ  yet,  nor  like  to 
be.  An'  Parson  King,  he  's  got  it.  I  don't  mind 
lettin'  out  that  much, "  raising  his  head,  and  glancing 
quickly  at  Jane's  face.  "  'T  ain't  stirred  yet;  but 
there  's  where  the  light  's  ben  throwed.  An'  the  nex' 
thing  's  another  rummage.  Bind  in'  on  you,  an'  me, 
an'  Huldy,  'cause  we  know  that  that  air  paper  that 's 
never  come  to  light  hed  the  parson's  name  to  it,  as 
well  as  Huldy's  an'  mine.  An'  then,  whatever  'twas, 
'twas  hid  away  in  the  old  cubbard,  for  a  while,  at 
least.  You,  an'  I,  an'  Huldy,  knows  that.  Or  else, 
what  was  it  waitin'  unlocked  and  open  for,  that  night, 


472  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

yer  see  ?  An'  the  doctor  allers  kep'  his  keys,  an'  no 
body  meddled  with  his  things  or  places;  as  Mis'  Vorse 
said  that  day  when  you  was  up  there,  lookin' ;  Pris- 
cill'  heerd  it,  and  she  named  it  to  Huldy;  she  thinks 
it 's  a  chance  ef  'twas  ever  opened  agin  from  then  to 
the  day  of  his  death.  'Twar  n't  a  large  family,  an' 
there  war  n't  many  comers  and  goers;  an'  it's  easy 
askin'.  I've  got  that  fur;  it 's  a  tollable  strong 
thread;  an'  the  toe's  started;  I  guess  't '11  ravel, 
when  we  once  begin !  " 

The  long  speech  had  given  Mrs.  Gair  time  to  think, 
—  to  collect  herself.  It  is  not  impossible  that  Eben's 
shrewdness  went  far  enough  to  intend  this. 

He  had  begun  to  ravel.  Her  only  alternative  was 
to  help.  It  was  no  policy  for  her,  now,  to  wait ;  to 
let  things  take  their  course ;  to  let  them  find  what  they 
could,  or  leave  it  undiscovered.  The  longer  the  delay, 
the  greater  the  difficulty,  the  further  she  would  be 
implicated  in  the  investigation;  the  more  closely  cir 
cumstances  would  be  recalled  and  weighed ;  everybody 
would  come  to  know  that  she  had  been  "up  and  round, " 
that  miserable  night ;  how  much  more,  depended  upon 
Eben's  counter-espial  and  forbearance ;  everybody  would 
know  that  she  alone  had  had  access,  since,  to  the  place 
where  the  will  had  been  found,  and  the  missing  paper 
had  undoubtedly  been  laid  away.  None  of  these  things 
would  do. 

She  was  quite  calm,  and  ready  with  wise  answer, 
when  Eben  finished  speaking. 

"You  are  altogether  mistaken, "  she  repeated.  "You 
have  come  here  taking  a  wrong  tone ;  an  utterly  un 
justifiable  one.  If  there  is  any  written  evidence  of  my 
father's  wishes  which  has  not  come  to  light,  no  one 
can  be  more  interested  than  I  to  find  it  and  follow  it 
out.  I  shall  be  in  Hilbury  this  summer;  it  has  been 
advised.  I  shall  do  what  I  can,  acting  upon  your 


EBEN'S  DISCOURSE.  473 

statement;  provided,  that  is,  that  you  refrain  in  fu 
ture  from  such  intimations  as  you  have  made  to-day. 
They  would  only  put  a  complete  stop  to  any  efforts  on 
my  part;  I  should  owe  it  to  my  own  self-respect  to 
remain  passive." 

A  very  fair  and  clever  position,  this,  that  Jane  Gair 
took;  she  actually  felt  it  genuine,  for  the  moment. 
People  have  two  sets  of  attitudes  that  they  stand  in. 
There  was  quite  another,  grown  familiar  to  her,  that 
she  should  cower  into  presently,  confronted  only  with 
truth  and  her  own  soul. 

"I  'm  agreeable,"  returned  Eben,  with  the  same  un 
disturbed  air  of  equanimity.  "It  's  as  good  a  way  o' 
puttin'  it  as  any  other  's  fur  's  I  'm  concerned.  We 
understand  one  another,  'n'  that  's  the  main  thing." 

Mrs.  Gair  passed  over  the  under- significance  of  this. 

"I  must  say,  however,"  she  returned,  "that  it 
seems  very  strange  to  me  that  you  should  rouse  up  on 
this  matter  again,  at  this  late  day.  You  have  let  it 
wait  your  own  convenience,  it  seems.  We  had  every 
reason  to  suppose  that  all  possible  search  had  been 
made  at  the  time  you  first  mentioned  it;  and  that 
you,  as  well  as  we,  were  convinced  that  it  had  been 
a  mistake." 

"No,  marm!  I  never  was  convinced.  But  I 
couldn't  help  it.  I  was  a  poor  man,  out  there  in  the 
prairies,  an'  no  great  hand  at  a  pen,  an'  no  way  o' 
gittin'  at  circumstances,  or  provin'  what  I  thought  I 
knew.  But  I  knew  't  was  bindin'  —  solemn  —  on 
me  to  fetch  it  some  time!  Or  else,  what 's  a  witness 
fur?  Folks  that  makes  nothin'  o'  signin'  their  names, 
every  day  o'  their  lives,  to  they  dunno  what,  mayn't 
feel  it  so ;  but  when  I  put  Ebenezer  Hatch  to  that  air 
dockyment,  I  made  it  a  business  o'  mine  afore  the 
Lord,  to  see  it  threw,  ef  I  could!  It  's  had  to  lay 
by;  I've  been  hendered;  but  I  hain't  lost  sight  of 


474  THE  GAYWOBTHYS. 

it,  never.  An'  in  conserquence,  here  we  are,  Mis' 
Gair!" 

"And  your  own  legacy,  — your  five  hundred  dol 
lars,  Mr.  Hatch?  You  have  thought  of  that,  perhaps, 
and  how  it  might  stand  affected  ?  " 

"Yes,  inarm!  The  fust  five  hunderd  I  made  arter 
I  cleared  my  farm,  an'  begun  to  realize  sun  thin',  I 
laid  by  in  the  Graysonville  Bank,  and  there  it  lays, 
int'rest  'n'  all;  I've  ben  ready  for  a  reckonin'  any 
time  this  ten  year !  " 

Say  came  in  with  her  mother's  dinner-tray.  A 
delicate  broiled  partridge,  and  a  glass  of  warm,  liquid 
wine  jelly,  just  made,  translucent  as  amber.  To  be 
eaten  and  sipped  with  such  appetite  as  might  be. 

Eben  Hatch  took  his  departure. 

"  'Twas  sharp  an'  sudden  on  her;  an'  thunderin' 
sarcy,  no  mistake!  But  there  war  n't  no  other  way," 
he  said  to  himself,  walking  down  Hill  Street,  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets.  "It's  laid  hard  on  me,  too! 
'T  war  n't  fer  nothin'  that  the  hendrances  was  took 
away.  Well,  a  feller  can't  allers  fetch  everything  in 
this  world !  " 

Three  little  broken  threads  of  life  —  ended  in  three 
small  graves  —  were  in  the  honest  fellow's  thought. 
Great  drops  stood  in  his  eyes  with  which  the  March 
wind  had  nothing  to  do. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

MKS.   GAIB   MAKES   UP   HER   MIND   TO   BE   EQUAL  TO   IT. 

WAS  this  Jane  Gair's  punishment,  —  come  sud 
denly?  Her  sin  and  its  defeat,  bearing  down  on  her 
at  once,  force  closing  in  around  her  and  compelling 
her  to  restitution,  now  that  this  Yankee  honesty  was 
on  her  track? 

Her  punishment  had  been  upon  her  for  long  years. 
She  had  laid  away  a  thing  that  she  would  not  look  at, 
in  her  soul;  but  it  festered.  She  had  been  restless 
with  she  knew  not  what  goadings ;  ashamed  and  afraid 
with  a  secret  torment  and  terror;  undecided  with  a 
hesitancy  that  unhinged  her  nerves,  and  sent  a  trem 
bling  of  pain  into  every  one,  till  it  fastened  itself  upon 
her,  so,  and  made  her  the  helpless,  diseased,  unhappy 
thing  she  had  become.  She  had  had  hypochondriac 
fancies;  she  had  wondered,  lying  by  her  husband's 
side,  whether  she  ever  talked  in  her  sleep.  She  had 
been  afraid  she  might  some  time  have  a  fever,  and  in 
delirium  go  over  again  and  betray  her  knowledge  and 
her  deed.  She  had  had  her  repentances;  moments 
when  God  came  near  her  in  some  way,  and  his  truth 
admonished  her;  when  she  had  almost  resolved  to  go 
and  find  this  thing  out.  She  had  even  tried  once ; 
when  Say  lay  ill  —  dying,  she  thought  —  at  Hilbury, 
she  had  one  day  climbed  again  to  this  old  cupboard, 
making  errand  of  some  grandmother's  recipe  that 
might  be  there.  The  letter-case  was  gone;  it  had 
been  taken  away  and  put  elsewhere ;  she  dared  not  ask 
for  it.  Say  got  better,  and  her  purpose  was  put  by. 

The  husband  of  her  youth  had  died :  she  had  been 


476  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

smitten  with  the  separate  sorrow  of  widowhood.  They 
had  come  to  her  with  words  of  comfort;  of  faith  in  a 
continued  spiritual  companionship;  she  had  shuddered; 
she  would  rather  think  of  him  who  had  truly  had  the 
love  of  her  life,  as  gone  utterly,  than  that  he  should 
look  upon  her  now  to  know  her  soul.  For  he  had  been 
an  honest  man. 

She  shrank  from  her  young,  pure  daughter.  She 
thought  of  the  time  that  might  come  when  she  should 
not  dare  to  die  without  confessing  to  this  child,  and 
leaving  reparation  in  her  hands.  She  was  afraid  of 
the  conscience  -  weakness  that  might  overbear  her. 
This  was  her  other  attitude,  — before  her  secret  soul 
and  the  truth  of  Heaven. 

"I  will  repay,  saith  the  Lord."  And  verily  He 
doth  repay. 

It  was  hardly  strange  that  now,  after  the  first 
startle  of  Eben's  unscrupulous  attack,  her  predominant 
feeling  should  be  that  of  absolute  relief.  She  might 
openly  make  search  again;  she  must;  that  question 
was  decided  for  her ;  she  might  —  she  must  —  assist 
in  the  general  endeavor  to  make  clear  this  doubt  newly 
arisen ;  the  load  was  to  be  thrown  from  her  conscience ; 
things  had  worked  for  the  best,  after  all,  and  she  had 
managed  Eben  shrewdly.  For  the  money,  what  did 
she  care  for  it  now  ?  Full  of  pain  and  discomfort,  her 
life  circumscribed  by  a  sick-room ;  lonely,  disappointed 
of  all  she  had  so  striven  for.  She  might  as  well  be 
honest  as  not,  and  lie  down  in  her  grave  with  a  clear 
conscience.  But  this  was  all  in  the  fine  soul-type. 
She  only  confessed  to  herself  that  she  was  quite  satis 
fied  with  the  turn  things  were  taking,  and  thankful ; 
she  had  never  felt  quite  easy  about  the  will ;  she  would 
be  glad  to  have  justice  done ;  if  that  paper  still  ex 
isted,  she  would  do  her  utmost  now  to  help  the  finding 
of  it. 


MRS.  GAIE  MAKES   UP  HER  MIND.         477 

And  so  she  greatly  astonished  Say,  a  few  days  after 
Eben's  visit,  by  declaring  that  she  had  made  up  her 
mind,  when  the  warm  weather  should  have  fairly  come, 
to  try  Hilbury  again. 

Weeks  hence  she  would  do  justice.  Justice,  that 
a  word,  one  self-humiliating  word,  might  do  to-day. 
Weeks  hence,  and  she  a  feeble,  pain- stricken  woman, 
who  could  not  count  upon  the  strength  of  an  hour. 

Say  wrote  to  Hilbury,  and  the  days  of  spring  wore 
on  and  softened  into  early  summer. 

Mrs.  Gair  seemed  wonderfully  better  for  the  time; 
so  much  so  that  Mr.  Brinley,  the  lawyer,  judged  it 
best  at  last  to  say  something  to  prepare  her  for  the 
necessity  of  permanently  altered  plans. 

He  approached  his  subject  cautiously. 

"You  must  find  this  neighborhood  grown  very  noisy, 
for  an  invalid,  Mrs.  Gair.  Lower  down,  I  see,  they 
are  already  converting  dwelling-houses  into  stores. 
The  tide  will  creep  up  here  at  last.  Has  it  ever  oc 
curred  to  you  that  you  might  sell  to  advantage,  and 
find  a  quieter  home  ?  " 

"I  'm  not  equal  to  having  anything  occur  to  me, 
Mr.  Brinley,"  the  widow  replied,  with  a  feeble  sur 
prise  and  petulance.  "Don't  put  anything  in  my 
head;  for  I  can't  bear  it." 

"It  is  difficult  for  me  to  judge  how  to  act,"  said 
the  gentleman,  with  a  slight  annoyance.  "I  must 
think  for  your  interest.  And  if  you  could  only  bear 
a  little  business,  it  might  be  greatly  better  for  you  in 
the  end." 

"I  don't  care  for  business.  All  I  want  is  my  room, 
and  my  nurse,  and  the  little  bits  I  need,  and  not  to 
be  worried." 

"You  are  much  stronger  than  you  were,  I  think." 

"I  'm  better  able  to  bear  being  alive;  that  's  all." 

"No  doubt  the  country  air  will  do  great  things  for 


478  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

you.      Mrs.  Gair,  don't  you  think  you  might  be  better 
to  make  your  home  in  the  country,  altogether  ?  " 

"My  gracious!  Mr.  Brinley,  what  can  you  be  think 
ing  of  ?  " 

"I'm  thinking,"  he  replied,  driven  desperate  and 
feeling  that  his  duty  must  be  done,  "that  your  income 
would  go  further,  so ;  and  —  this  house  —  well,  the 
fact  is,  Mrs.  Gair,  it  isn't  wholly  unincumbered,,  you 
know." 

Mrs.  Gair  sat  upright,  the  invalid  air  and  tone  dis 
placed  by  an  angry  surprise. 

"My  husband's  will  directed  that  the  old  mortgage 
should  be  paid  off,  and  the  property  secured  to  me  for 
my  life!" 

"Just  so;  but  —  my  dear  lady  —  it  couldn't  be 
done !  Not  from  his  property. " 

Mr.  Brinley  put  his  right  leg  over  his  left  knee,  and 
gently  wagged  his  foot  from  the  ankle.  This  was  the  ex 
treme  of  outward  agitation  he  ever  allowed  himself  in. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  "  — 

"I  mean  to  tell  you  only  what  you  can  safely  bear 
to  hear.  But  it  would  be  best  if  you  could  hear  the 
whole." 

"I  will  hear  the  whole!  Mr.  Brinley,  you  have 
not  used  me  well !  How  much  have  you  been  keeping 
back?" 

Jane  Gair  spoke  with  strong,  quick,  indignant  de 
termination.  For  the  instant,  she  was  galvanized  to 
a  full  strength. 

Mr.  Brinley  was  a  bachelor.  He  did  not  know 
much  about  women,  and  he  was  quite  misled.  Thank 
ful,  also,  to  have  this,  at  last,  demanded  of  him. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Gair,  you  have  been  very  ill;  and 
there  was  no  need  to  trouble  you  before.  Now  the 
question  comes  up,  and  it  becomes  my  duty  to  advise 
you  to  part  with  this  estate,  and  to  make  some  othei 


MRS.  GAIE  MAKES  UP  HEE  MIND.         479 

plan  as  to  your  own  future  residence.  In  this  connec 
tion,  it  is  my  unpleasant  duty,  also,  to  say  that  you 
will  have  little  beyond  your  own  property  to  depend 
upon." 

"I  don't  believe  it!  Only  forty  "  — thousand  dol 
lars,  she  was  going  to  say.  A  hard  thing,  even  this, 
for  a  woman  to  come  suddenly  to  know,  who  had  be 
lieved  herself  possessed  at  least  of  five  times  that 
amount. 

"We  will  leave  particulars  till  another  time,  dear 
madam, "  said  Mr.  Brinley,  interrupting  her. 

He  did  not  dare  to  tell  the  whole,  even  now.  To 
announce  to  her  how  even  her  own  inheritance  had 
dwindled  down. 

Jane  Gair  did  not  dare  to  hear.  She  turned  sud 
denly  pale  about  the  lips ;  there  was  no  color  elsewhere 
in  her  poor  face  to  fade.  She  fell  back,  trembling, 
against  her  chair.  Mr.  Brinley  brought  her  hastily 
some  water  and  rang  the  bell.  The  nurse  came  in, 
looking  forked  lightnings.  The  lawyer  took  himself 
disconcertedly  off. 

After-questions  upon  an  after-day  he  dodged  as  only 
a  lawyer  can. 

"  Transfer  of  stocks,  rise  in  values,  hopes  to  realize, 
—  impossible  to  say  just  now  how  everything  might 
turn  out,  —  do  all  that  was  practicable  for  her  advan 
tage,  —  let  her  know  from  time  to  time,"  —  etc.,  etc. 

Somehow,  he  kept  her  quiet.  Partly  because  of  her 
own  weak  fear  to  face  the  truth. 

But,  the  paper  ?     The  justice  she  was  to  help  to  do  ? 

The  secret  conflicting  agony  began  again. 

She  began  to  hope,  to  think,  sometimes  again,  that 
the  writing  never  would  be  found.  They  would  all 
search.  There  should  be  "another  rummage,"  as 
Eben  had  said,  but  it  might  end  as  the  first  had  done. 
Could  she  help  that? 


480  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

She  meant,  would  it  appear  that  she  could  have 
helped  it  ? 

Eben  might  do  his  worst.  What  then?  She  had 
gone  downstairs  one  night,  seventeen  years  ago,  to 
get  for  Say  a  glass  of  water.  She  remembered  it  well. 
She  had  opened  the  old  cupboard  once,  and  hunted  out 
a  hidden  volume  there  that  she  had  wanted.  Very 
well ;  what  could  anybody  make  of  it  ?  She  had  never 
touched  the  paper,  that  she  knew  of.  If  there  were 
anything  there  in  the  old  case  that  had  not  been  dis 
covered,  it  had  been  none  of  her  hiding.  It  might 
come  to  light  as  soon  or  as  late  as  ever  it  pleased. 

As  what  pleased  ? 

A  vague  thought  of  something  —  not  blind,  uncon 
scious  —  ruling  among  earthly  happenings  struck 
athwart  her  inner  sense  with  a  shudder.  She  dared 
not  look  that  way. 

She  wished  she  had  never  promised  to  go  to  Hilbury 
at  all.  It  was  a  horribly  nervous  business.  She  be 
gan  to  feel  herself  worse.  She  blamed  Say  for  taking 
her  so  quickly  at  her  word.  She  knew,  they  all  knew, 
that  the  mountain  air  was  like  death  to  her.  Well, 
they  might  finish  her  up,  among  them,  and  that  would 
be  the  end.  Say  would  have  had  her  own  way,  and 
would  be  satisfied,  perhaps. 

Through  such  pain  as  this  Say  had  to  struggle,  doing 
bravely  with  all  her  little  strength  what  she  knew  was 
truly  best  for  her  sick,  wearying,  reproachful  mother . 

And  the  June  days  came. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

TO-MORROW. 

I  MUST  stop  here  to  tell  you  a  little  more  exactly 
how  the  old  house  at  Hilbury  was  built.  I  don't  like, 
myself,  to  get  lost  among  imaginary  architecture, 
which  won't  stay  placed,  and  which  perpetually  violates 
the  unities.  I  like  to  have  things  clear  before  me, 
mentally. 

The  farmhouse  had  an  extended  front,  divided  mid 
way  by  the  entrance,  passage,  and  staircase  you  have 
heard  of.  Below  on  one  side  was  one  large  room,  of 
sufficiently  generous  proportions  to  hold  comfortably 
any  possible  New  England  Thanksgiving  family  party 
and  all  its  merriment.  On  the  other  side,  occupying 
the  front,  was  the  parlor,  behind  which  the  doctor's 
study  and  certain  closets  intervened  between  it  and  the 
spacious  kitchen.  Something  of  this  I  told  you  long 
ago. 

Upstairs  there  were  two  rooms  on  each  side.  On 
the  left,  opening  from  the  stair  landing  and  running 
from  the  kitchen  chamber  to  the  front,  the  oblong 
"dimity"  room,  where  Jane  and  Say  had  slept  seven 
teen  years  ago  this  very  June,  whence  Jane  had  gone 
for  the  drink  of  water,  and  Say  had  listened  and  heard 
the  earthquake.  Still  to  the  left  beyond,  in  the  south 
erly  corner,  separated  by  a  long,  narrow  closet,  and 
opening  only  into  the  kitchen-chamber  at  the  head  of 
the  "end  staircase, "  was  whrt  had  been  Joanna's  room; 
occupied  now,  for  the  sake  of  the  same  telegraph  of 
sympathy  from  gable  to  gable  of  the  two  neighboring 
homes,  by  Rebecca.  On  the  right  the  space  was  divided 


482  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

by  a  partitioning  precisely  at  right  angles  with  this 
last ;  the  chambers  corresponding  to  the  situation  of 
the  rooms  below.  In  front,  with  pleasant  southeast 
erly  aspect,  that  which  had  been  the  doctor's,  hung 
with  chintz  of  buff  and  brown.  Behind,  connected  by 
a  closet  entrance,  and  opening  also  to  the  kitchen- 
chamber  and  the  entry  landing,  the  "red  room,"  where 
Say  had  enjoyed  and  suffered.  The  long  kitchen- 
chamber,  with  southwest  end  cut  off,  giving  space  for 
stairway,  clothes-room,  and  Rebecca's  old,  cheery  bed 
room,  where  the  cherry-tree  came  in,  ran  along  the 
rear  of  all,  occupying  the  remainder  of  the  building. 
Now  you  have  it,  I  think,  drawn  out  as  a  house  should 
be,  wherein  you  follow  events  of  seventeen  years. 

"When  Jane  arrived  at  dusk,  with  her  daughter  and 
her  nurse,  and  her  trunks,  and  her  reclining  chair,  and 
her  baths,  in  and  upon  a  special  stage-coach  from  the 
Bridge,  she  was  too  tired  to  think  or  choose,  or  say 
a  word.  It  was  not  until  Mrs.  Karcher  was-  helping 
her  into  bed,  and  the  .buff-brown  hangings  were  pushed 
back  upon  the  side  to  give  her  entrance,  that  a  sudden 
horrified  recollection  seized  her,  and  an  invisible  force 
seemed  to  thrust  her  away. 

To  rest  there !  She  saw  a  vision  of  white  locks  upon 
the  pillow ;  of  dim,  imploring  eyes  that  met  her  own ; 
of  lips  that  moved  with  a  mute  signing,  —  "  There !  " 

"I  can't!"  she  gasped  out,  and  fell  forward  as 
she  said  so,  her  arms  thrown  out  across  the  bed.  Mrs. 
Karcher  just  went  round  and  took  her  by  the  shoulders 
and  turned  her  over,  and  drew  her  fairly  on. 

"The  tantrums  of  her!  "  she  ejaculated,  finding  her 
white,  faint,  and  unheeding. 

Rebecca  came  in. 

Together  they  lifted  her  into  a  right  position,  and 
brought  water  and  restoratives. 

"Are  you  better,  dear?"  Rebecca  asked,  when  the 
closed  eyes  reopened. 


TO-MORROW.  483 

"I  don't  know.  Where  am  I?  What  did  I  do? 
Oh!" 

With  a  quick  scream  she  flung  herself  up  to  her 
elbow,  out  of  their  hands. 

"I  can't  —  I  won't  —  it  is  cruel!  What  did  you 
put  me  here  for  ?  " 

"Don't  you  like  it?  We  thought  it  was  better. 
Mrs.  Karcher  would  be  close  by,  in  the  red  room ;  and 
the  dimity  bedroom  is  for  Say.  You  would  be  all 
together.  It  seemed  to  be  the  only  thing." 

"And  the  cheer,  and  the  tubs,  and  the  bottles,  and 
everything,  just  got  out  and  put  handy!  And  I  with 
out  a  foot  to  stand  on !  "  The  poor  nurse  spoke  de 
spairingly  in  a  low  tone,  to  Miss  Gay  worthy. 

"I  think  you  must  stay  here  to-night.  You  're  not 
able  to  be  moved. " 

"  I  am  able !  And  I  will  not !  Take  me  into  the 
red  room." 

The  white  lips  twitched.  It  might  be  worse  to  per 
sist  than  to  let  her  have  her  way.  They  held  her  up, 
one  at  each  side,  and  helped  her  slowly  along,  into  the 
red  room ;  and  got  her  into  bed. 

The  faintness  passed  off,  then,  and  the  look  of  life 
came  back.  But  with  the  life  came  pain  again.  A 
fearful  nervous  agony  in  every  limb.  They  stood  over 
her  and  bathed,  and  rubbed,  and  gave  her  soothing 
drops. 

By  and  by  she  quieted,  and  from  pure  exhaustion 
fell  asleep. 

"Lord  save  us  from  such  another  day!  "  sighed  Mrs. 
Karcher  wearily,  dragging  herself  off  at  last,  to  her 
own  uncertain  rest. 

Jane  slept  into  the  midnight. 

Then  she  awoke  stark,  staring;  alone  in  utter  still 
ness. 

To  think. 


484  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

To  see  the  flicker  of  faint  light  through  the  closet 
doorway,  from  the  night-lamp  set  upon  the  hearth  in 
the  room  beyond. 

To  fancy  the  room  in  that  sick  glimmer;  and  the 
canopied  bed;  to  find  it  impossible  to  picture  Mrs. 
Karcher  there  its  occupant;  to  be  able  to  think  of 
nothing  but  the  white  hair,  the  dim,  asking  eyes,  the 
tremulous-moving  lips ;  to  fix  her  imagination  helplessly 
upon  these,  till  they  drew  her  with  a  fearful  magnet 
ism  of  reality. 

"Daughter!" 

The  very  tone  was  in  her  ears. 

She  knew  it  was  a  fancy ;  but  if  she  did  not  go  and 
see,  it  would  haunt  and  summon  her  till  she  felt  she 
should  go  wild.  It  was  worse  here,  with  that  door 
open  and  that  sick-room  gleam,  and  all  else  hid,  than 
it  would  have  been  to  stay  there.  She  almost  dreaded, 
in  her  overwrought  excitement,  that  if  she  did  not  rise 
and  go,  her  father's  phantom-shape  would  glide  from 
the  dim  room  and  come  to  her.  She  should  go  wild ! 

She  was  afraid  she  should  scream  out  and  lose  all 
self-control.  She  had  been  afraid  of  this,  sometimes, 
before.  She  set  her  teeth  and  clenched  her  hands. 
A  strange  shiver  ran  along  her  limbs. 

She  could  lie  there  and  endure  no  longer.  At  the 
risk  of  bringing  back  that  horrible  pain,  she  must  get 
up  and  go  and  see.  She  slid  from  under  the  bedclothes, 
and  stood  upon  the  floor.  Noiselessly;  lest  Mrs. 
Karcher  (she  knew  it  was  Mrs.  Karcher  and  no  one 
else,  —  she  kept  saying  it  over,  —  yet  she  could  not 
place  her  there,  in  the  canopied  bed  in  that  next  room  •, 
she  could  only  see  the  old  face,  and  the  white  hair,  and 
the  lips  that  whispered,  "Daughter!"), — lest  Mrs. 
Karcher  should  hear  and  come  to  her  and  put  her  back 
to  bed  again.  And  that  threshold  she  must  cross. 

Was  her  mind  going  ?     Should  she,  if  she  once  let 


TO-MORROW.  485 

go  this  clench  of  hands  and  teeth,  —  this  clenih  of 
thought  that  for  years  had  held  a  thing  it  would  not 
unclasp  to  look  at,  — go  shrieking  it  all  out  together, 
through  the  house,  —  a  madwoman  ? 

It  was  almost  upon  her. 

How  the  shadows  flickered  as  the  lamp  flared  in  the 
breath  through  the  doorway !  They  were  like  things 
alive ! 

Was  this  room  full  of  guilt,  haunting  and  mocking 
her,  as  the  room  at  home  had  been  of  pain  ?  Had  it 
clung  there  to  the  very  walls,  the  breath  of  her  old 
unspoken  deceit,  to  wait  for  her  ? 

"Mrs.  Karcher!" 

"The  mercy!  "      The  nurse  sat  bolt  upright  in  bed. 

"I  must  come  to  bed  to  you.  I  cannot  stay  alone. 
I  'm  —  nervous!  "  The  word  came  with  a  low  tremble 
of  horror,  through  teeth  clenched  again. 

Mrs.  Karcher  flung  back  the  bedclothes,  and  the 
figure  cowered  and  trembled  in.  Laid  itself,  cold  and 
rigid,  at  her  side,  as  something  might  that  should  go 
wandering  at  midnight,  and  come  back  into  a  grave. 

Mrs.  Karcher,  providentially,  was  not  nervous. 
She  was  kindly  and  patient ;  overworked  and  overtired, 
sometimes,  as  human  beings  must  be. 

"We  '11  see  to  this  to-morrow.  Lie  still,  now,  and 
go  to  sleep, "  she  said,  coming  close  to  give  of  her  own 
abundant  vital  warmth,  and  rubbing  the  poor,  chilled 
hands. 

"Yes.  To-morrow.  We  will  see  to  it,  to-mor 
row."  There  were  separate  thoughts  in  the  two  minds. 

Jane  Gair  lay,  growing  calmer,  outwardly ;  and 
thinking  she  would  see  to  it  all  to-morrow.  Borrow 
ing  a  little  peace,  or  stilling  a  little  a  great  tor 
ment,  so. 

And  the  gray,  easterly  light  began  to  creep  up 
against  the  windows.  To-morrow  was  almost  come. 


486  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

"Rub  my  hands  again.      They  feel  so  strangely." 

It  seemed  to  Nurse  Karcher  that  she  had  just  done 
rubbing,  and  shut  her  eyes,  when  Jane  said  this,  an 
hour  later. 

"They  're  numb.      I  think  they  're  gone  asleep." 

"You  must  have  laid  uncomfortable;  and  stopped 
the  circulation." 

"Rub!   do  rub!" 

So  she  rubbed;  and  fell  asleep  rubbing;  and  Jane 
slept  too ;  or  some  other  stillness  came  over  her. 

It  was  broad  day  when  the  overtaxed  nurse  awoke. 
She  raised  herself,  very  gently,  to  look  at  her  patient. 

"  Oh,  my  gracious  God !  " 

There  was  life  in  the  wide-open  eyes;  a  terrible 
agonized  life ;  all  else  —  limbs  and  features  —  lay 
dead.  There  was  a  look  of  striving;  a  helpless,  inar 
ticulate  sound  came  from  between  the  lips,  where  the 
tongue  lolled  incapable. 

Mrs.  Karcher  had  seen  it  before;  she  knew  it  at 
first  glance. 

Paralysis. 

Here,  in  the  very  spot  where  her  old  father  had 
lain ;  where  she  had  watched,  with  a  hard  purpose  of 
not  knowing  what  she  would  not  know,  his  pleading 
eyes,  his  striving  lips ;  here,  where  who  knows  what 
agony  of  late  repentance  had  come  to  her,  in  these 
hours  of  fear,  that  she  could  never  tell  nor  evidence 
now,  —  the  hand  of  God  was  laid  upon  her. 

She  might  live,  and  lie  here,  days,  in  this  mortal 
nightmare;  none  could  know.  Brain  and  heart  beat 
on,  alive;  but  she  never  should  make  utterance  or 
motion,  more. 

She  must  live,  so,  and  look,  out  of  those  agonized 
eyes,  whose  beseeching  none  might  answer,  on  the  scene 
of  her  silent  sin. 

She  must  go  out  of  the  world  bearing  with  her,  for 


TO-MORROW.  487 

her  curse,  the  secret  that  struggled  at  the  last  within 
her,  and  anguished  to  reveal  itself;  but  that  God,  who 
had  had  long  patience  now,  laid  his  finger  on  her  lips, 
forbidding  her  to  speak. 

She  had  "done  nothing."  She  had  "waited." 
She  must  do  nothing,  now.  She  must  go  away;  and 
wait.  It  was  her  retribution. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIH. 

SEEKING. 

"I  KNOW  she  wanted  something,"  Say  said  griev- 
ingly  and  repeatedly. 

That  last,  longing  look,  —  denied  speech,  —  from 
how  many  deathbeds  has  it  come  up,  —  to  how  many 
sorrowing  hearts  has  it  returned  like  a  vision,  haunting 
with  something  that  was  "wanted,"  and  could  never 
be  asked  for  nor  explained. 

But  this,  —  it  had  not  been  the  look  of  a  moment, 
merely;  of  the  last  instant,  when  voice  and  motion 
fail,  and  the  infinite  yearning  of  all  that  is  left  un 
spoken  surges  up  with  the  latest  flash  of  soul-pres 
ence,  from  under  the  fluttering  lids.  It  had  been  an 
agony  of  days.  It  had  painted  itself  upon  Say's  men 
tal  vision,  displacing  all  other  recollection  of  her  mo 
ther's  face.  She  could  not  think  of  her  as  she  had 
been  in  health.  She  could  not  force  her  thoughts  to 
picture  her  as  she  lay  at  last,  stilled  to  the  long  sleep. 
Up,  through  the  closed  lid,  —  the  heaped-up  grave, 
even,  —  struggled  that  wild  imploringness  of  wide- 
open,  conscious  eyes.  She  could  not  think  of  her  at 
rest.  There  are  other  hauntings,  and  more  real,  of  the 
perturbed  soul  that  goes  unshriven,  than  the  spectral 
wanderings  of  the  old  tales.  The  child  knew  that  her 
mother  had  not  gone  to  rest ;  that  a  spirit-urging  was 
upon  herself ;  that  a  something  had  been  left  undone, 
which  she,  God  guiding  her,  must  do. 

Every  hard,  reproachful  thought  —  if  she  had  ever 
harbored  such,  in  her  pain,  in  time  past  —  of  the  un 
known  thing  that  had  lain  between  her  mother  and 


SEEKING.  489 

Aunt  Prue,  whereof  Aunt  Prue  had  made  such  scath 
ing  charge,  was  gone,  — changed  utterly.  She  "knew 
her  mother  wanted  something."  If  she  could  have 
signed  or  spoken!  There  was  something  she  would 
have  told  to  Say.  If  for  a  moment  the  child  was 
left  alone  at  her  bedside,  the  yearning  look,  the  ter 
rible  striving,  the  restless,  imploring  wander  of  the 
eyes  grew  more  intense,  —  more  fearfully  earnest  and 
agonizing. 

"  It  is  something  that  you  want  of  me  ?  "  she  had 
said  once,  bending  down  and  speaking  clear  and  low 
into  her  mother's  ear. 

And  the  deep,  searching  answer  that  came  back  from 
eye  to  eye,  only!  It  was  soul  enjoining  soul. 

"I  will  think,  I  will  try  to  learn;  somehow,  I  shall 
be  led;  and,  if  I  find  it,  I  will  do  as  you  would  have 
me  do." 

For  a  moment,  then,  there  had  been  quiet;  after 
wards  sudden  pleading  lights  of  inquiry  came  up,  mo 
mentarily,  from  time  to  time,  when  Say  leaned  over 
her,  as  if  the  eyes  said,  "  Will  you  ?  "  "You  are  sure 
you  will  ?  " 

Say  knew,  with  a  sweet,  filial,  pious  certainty,  that 
her  mother  had  meant  justly  at  the  last.  She  only 
pitied,  now,  and  longed  to  fulfill  for  her.  She  laid 
away  what  might  have  been  a  reproach  and  a  bitter 
ness  ;  it  was  never  to  be  looked  at  again.  Her  poor, 
suffering,  stricken,  regretful  mother!  This  was  how 
she  thought  of  her. 

It  was  some  small  thing,  doubtless;  something  she 
had  thought  from  time  to  time  to  set  right ;  something 
she  had  not  "considered  it  best  "  — Say  knew  her  mo 
ther's  way  of  judging  and  reasoning  —  to  act  upon  at 
first.  She  had  not  meant  deliberate  wrong;  she  could 
not  think  that,  let  Aunt  Prue  accuse  as  she  might ;  it 
had  only  been  her  habit  of  "managing  "  things,  which 


490  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

always  made  Say  so  sorry ;  it  was  such  a  mistake ;  God 
manages ;  we  must  only  do  his  will,  and  leave  it  to 
Him.  Her  mother  had  mistaken;  and  it  had  become 
too  late;  and  she  had  suffered.  She  was  gone;  and 
Say  must  try  to  find  it  and  do  it  for  her.  Then,  the 
look  of  the  haunting  eyes  should  close  away  into  a  per 
fect  rest  again. 

She  found  Eben,  one  day,  when  he  was  up  at  the 
farm.  She  followed  him  down  the  green  lane  toward 
the  sheep-pasture,  and  spoke  to  him,  alone. 

"I  think  you  know,  Eben,"  she  said  suddenly,  look 
ing  him  in  the  face,  after  she  had  walked  a  little  way 
by  his  side,  saying  nothing. 

"I  know  a  few  things,"  said  Eben,  in  reply.  "But 
—  sech  as  what  ?  " 

"  Something  that  my  mother  wanted,  —  I  must  find 
it  out,  Eben !  " 

Eben  whistled ;  very  low.  He  was  puzzled  what  to 
say  to  this  child.  The  awful  visitation  that  had  come 
upon  Jane  Gair  had  suspended  all  his  shrewd  inten 
tions  ;  had  softened  his  desire  of  justice  upon  her. 

"I  can't  work  from  the  outside  in,  to  the  heart  of 
the  matter, "  he  had  said  to  himself  at  an  early  stage 
of  his  endeavors.  "I  have  n't  got  the  clear  track; 
I  must  work  from  inside  out."  He  began  at  Jane's 
conscience.  He  had  got  just  fact  enough  to  press 
upon  that,  and  stir  it  to  its  office.  Unless  she  would 
speak,  he  knew  little  beyond  what  he  had  known  twelve 
years  ago;  "not  enough  to  make  a  rumpus,  an'  upset 
a  peaceable  family  for." 

He  had  kept  his  Yankee  eyes  and  ears  open  in  Hil- 
bury ;  he  had  talked  over  old  times ;  he  had  been  es 
pecially  interested  about  Parson  Fairbrother;  he  had 
gathered  odds  and  ends  of  hearsay  and  conjecture ;  he 
had  discussed,  with  the  old  neighbors,  the  changes  at 
the  Gayworthy  farm;  he  stirred  up,  cautiously,  the 


SEEKING.  491 

died-out  "wonderings"  about  the  will;  he  had  felt 
the  whole  atmosphere  of  the  place,  so  far  as  it  bore, 
at  all,  upon  the  subject  which  he  had  at  heart.  At 
his  suggestion,  Huldah  and  Priscilla  had  had  confi 
dences;  and  Priscilla  had  "named  "  the  matter  of  her 
old  surprise  and  curiosity;  and  her  eyes  had  grown 
round  again,  with  a  fresh  and  a  greater  wonder ;  and 
the  new  impression,  that  was  to  come,  had  come  at 
last,  and  mated  itself  to  the  old,  that  had  been  set 
away,  on  purpose,  all  these  years,  to  cool  and  wait. 
Eben  was  convinced  in  his  own  mind.  He  "knew  ther 
Tied  been  a  bob  to  that  air  kite-tail;  he  'n'  Huldy  felt 
convicted  of  it."  And  then,  there  were  the  "reflec 
tions  "  in  the  parson's  diary.  But,  to  own  the  whole 
truth  of  Eben,  he  had  got  at  these  last  in  a  somewhat 
surreptitious  way,  himself. 

He  had  taken  Huldah  down  to  Winthorpe  one  day, 
when  he  had  known  that  Parson  King  and  his  wife 
were  away  at  an  ordination. 

They  had  found  Malviny  Fairbrother  there ;  the  old 
lady  was  dead;  and  Malviny  "made  it  her  home" 
now  at  Winthorpe  parsonage.  Huldah  had  set  her 
going  upon  old  times.  Eben  had  picked  up  this  bright 
idea  of  some  possible  existing  record  of  what  he 
wanted  to  know,  and  worked  dexterously  round  to  it. 

"  He  was  a  dreadful  orderly  man,  yer  father ;  allers 
did  everything,  't  seemed  ter  me,  's  if  't  was  out  'v  a 
book,  or  goin'  inter  one.  'N',  by  the  way,  they  say  in 
Hilbury,  ther  was  to  a-ben  a  me-more,  or  sunthin'. 
Oughter  ben.  What 's  the  use  'v  a  man  livin'  a  me- 
more  ef  it  don't  get  writ?  Didn't  Parson  King  hev 
s'm  papers,  'r  sunthin',  't  one  time?  " 

"He  had  my  father's  diary,"  replied  the  minister's 
daughter,  with  prim  dignity.  She  had  been  the 
"minister's  daughter,"  all  her  life,  from  the  days  of 
grown-up  tea-parties,  where  she  appeared  on  privilege, 


492  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

till  now.  The  sense  of  it  had  heen  ever  present  to 
her;  a  most  sustaining  sense;  and  fortunately,  since 
there  had  been  little  likelihood  of  her  ever  merging 
this  in  any  other  claim  or  dignity. 

"And  he  has  it  to  this  day.  Laid  away  in  his 
desk,  I  guess,  which  is  all  that  will  ever  come  of  it, 
most  probably.  My  Uncle  Gordon  isn't  exactly  a 
doing  man."  And  Malviny  sniffed,  as  one  vitally 
aggrieved  by  such  incompetency. 

"'T  must  be  very  curious  'n'  improving"  said  the 
wily  Eben.  "I  dursay  now,  't  had  half  the  history 
of  the  town  in  't,  's  fur  's  it  went.  Must  a-ben  a 
sightly  vollum." 

They  were  sitting  in  Gordon  King's  study  at  the 
moment,  it  being  back  parlor  as  well.  Eben's  eye 
ran  over  the  shelves,  and  rested  on  the  minister's  desk. 

Miss  Malviny  got  up  presently,  and  opened  it.  She 
took  thence  an  old-fashioned  sheepskin-covered  book, 
of  royal  octavo  size,  with  DIARY  in  large  lettering 
across  the  back. 

"  This  is  it, "  she  said,  and  turned  it  in  her  hands 
with  pride. 

"An5  all  full!"  ejaculated  Eben,  with  surprise. 
"I —  No,  I  don't  nuther,  't  would  n't  be  proper. 
I  dursay,  Huldy,  that  air  's  got  sunthin'  'bout  you  'n' 
me  in  it,  'mongst  other  things.  October  the  19th, 
18 — ,  hey?  Good  many  things  might  be  proved  out 
'v  a  book  like  that,  ef  there  war  n't  no  other  way, 
mebbe." 

"18 — ."  Miss  Malviny  ran  over  the  leaves  in  her 
prim,  deliberate  way.  "Would  it  be  a  gratification 
to  you  to  look  at  it  ?  "  and  she  held  it  out. 

Eben  put  his  hat  down  on  the  floor,  and  took  the 
volume  on  his  knees  open  as  she  gave  it  to  him. 

Huldah  moved  toward  the  window,  and  fell  to  ad 
miring  the  great,  pink-flowered  oleander  that  stood 


SEEKING.  493 

there  in  the  sunshine.  The  two  women's  heads  were 
turned  away  in  conference  over  the  plant,  Miss  Fair- 
brother's  special  boast.  Somehow,  by  one  of  his 
clumsy  motions,  Eben  lost  the  place,  and  had  but  just 
recovered  it,  when,  after  some  minutes'  talk,  they 
turned  round  again. 

"Here  't  is,  Huldy,  sure  enough!  No  gittin' 
away  from  it !  "  And  he  pointed  out,  with  exultation, 
as  she  came  to  his  side,  the  paragraph  referring  to  the 
solemnization  of  their  nuptials. 

"Ain't  you  'horry  '  yet?  "  he  whispered. 

Miss  Malviny  turned  considerately,  and  sensitively, 
away,  again. 

"An'  t'  other  's  there,  too!  "  he  got  time  to  add,  in 
a  still  lower  and  more  emphatic  whisper,  as  he  shut 
the  book,  and  rose  to  give  it  back. 

Miss  Malviny  took  it,  in  bulk,  with  her  air  of  pride, 
utterly  unconscious  of  details.  She  was  proud  of  it 
in  bulk ;  she  thought  it  ought,  somehow,  to  be  turned 
into  a  memoir;  she  had  never  taken  the  trouble  to 
examine  it  in  its  particulars. 

Another  most  safe  though  slight  concealment  this 
family  secret  of  the  Gayworthys  had  found. 

Yet,  after  all,  if  it  were  known  ?  If  Eben  should 
speak  out  and  direct  attention  to  it?  What  did  it 
prove?  That  there  had  been  a  paper.  Eben  could 
prove  that,  already.  Something  more.  That  the  pa 
per  had  been  an  act  in  favor  of  "the  widow  and  the 
fatherless."  But,  what  then?  They  had  searched 
for  this  paper  before;  twelve  years  ago,  in  the  first 
handling  of  the  doctor's  affairs;  while  all  such  things 
had  been  scrupulously  kept  together;  and  it  could  not 
be  found.  The  same  hand  which  prepared  might 
have  canceled  it.  There  had  been,  to  many  minds, 
sufficient  cause.  He  could  not  say  that  he  had  not,  at 
one  time,  thought  it  possible,  himself.  The  only  lips 


494  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

that  could,  perhaps,  have  told  the  truth,  were  shut, 
forever.  He  had  "almost  fetched  it,"  he  had  said, 
to  himself,  when  he  had  laid  this  hold,  by  sudden  as 
sault,  upon  Jane  Gair's  conscience.  But  she  had  died 
and  made  no  sign.  It  was  not  an  easy,  or  a  reasona 
ble  thing,  to  "upset  a  family  "  upon  no  better  grounds. 
And  Eben  could  not  walk  into  the  Gayworthy  presses 
and  cupboards,  with  the  search-warrant  only  of  his 
honest  persuasion  and  purpose.  There  are  little  every 
day  proprieties  of  observance  that  make  the  firmest 
persuasion,  the  honestest  purpose,  unavailing  against 
their  petty  bars. 

"She  wanted  something." 

"No  doubt  she  did  want  sunthin',"  Eben  replied,  to 
Say's  eager  appeal.  "Dyin'  folks  mostly  do.  It 's  a 
kind  'v  an  awful  spell,  when  everything  comes  up  to 
gether,  and  they  ain't  no  time  nor  strength  to  say  it 
with.  But  she  never  said  nothin'  to  we." 

"What  did  you  say  to  her.,  Eben,  that  day,  when 
you  came  to  see  her  in  Hill  Street  ?  " 

Say's  eyes*  were  turned  on  Eben's  face,  with  hardly 
less  of  fearful  earnestness  in  them  than  those  other 
eyes  had  held,  when  they  turned  on  hers. 

"Don't  look  at  a  feller  so!  "  he  cried,  fairly  star 
tled.  "I  couldn't  tell  a  thing,  ef  I  did  know  it!  " 

"  What  did  you  say  to  her  ?  "  Say  repeated  lower 
and  more  quietly,  still  with  an  earnest,  demanding 
look  in  her  eyes,  though  she  tried  to  soften  them. 
But  it  was  as  if  another  soul  questioned  through  hers, 
and  would  be  answered. 

"Well,  I  told  her  I  thought  we  'd  oughter  hev  an 
other  rummage !  " 

"  Rummage !      Where  ?     What  for  ?  " 

"Round  ginerally.      Arter  that  air  kite-bob." 

"  Eben !     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Are  you  in  airnest,  Sarah?  " 


SEEKING.  495 

"In  soul-earnest!  "  said  the  girl.  And  the  words 
shone  in  her  eyes. 

-  "Well,  then,  I  '11  tell  you  every  pesky  thing  I 
know  about  it.  That  is  —  hum!  in  proper  order. 
Fust  thing,  —  there  was  a  paper.  The  doctor  writ  it, 
V  me  V  Huldy  signed  it  fur  him.  Parson  Fairbro- 
ther  signed  it  too,  atop.  I  never  see  no  thin'  of  it  but 
the  names.  But  I  knew  then  it  was  a  bob!  " 

"Oh,  Eben!  don't  make  fun.      Talk  plain." 

"Don't  make  no  difference  what  you  call  it.  A 
piecin'  out,  or  a  tail  end  to  sunthin'  that  was  writ 
afore  an'  found  arterwards,  an'  gone  upon;  an'  this 
never  was." 

"Did  it  have  to  do  with  grandfather's  will,  Eben? 
Is  that  what  you  mean  ?  " 

"That's  what  I'm  persuaded  on,  though  I  never 
witnessed  nothin'  but  the  name.  I  wouldn't  do  no 
sech  a  blindfold  job  again,  though.  It 's  a  scary  thing 
enough  to  be  a  witness,  'n'  ter  feel  that  go  where  yer 
will  all  over  the  world,  yer  've  got  to  turn  up  again 
simultaneous  with  that  air  paper,  or  mebbe  a  hull  pos 
terity  's  in  a  snarl,  athout  hevin'  it  ter  conjer  out, 
besides!  It's  my  belief,  'n'  I'm  backed  up  in  it 
strong,  though  that  ain't  needful  to  go  inter  now,  — 
that  that  air  hed  ter  dew  with  the  property;  'n'  the 
widder  'n'  the  fatherless.  I  writ  t'  yer  mother  'n  the 
time  on  't,  an'  ther  was  a  rummage ;  but  nothin'  come 
of  it.  'T  war  n't  never  found." 

"Why  did  you  write  to  my  mother?  " 

"Well, — 'cause,  first  place,  she  was  the  oldest; 
'nj  yer  father  was  egzeckitur  under  the  will;  'n' 
'cause  if  the  old  doctor  ever  talk't  it  over  t'  anybody, 
'twas  most  likely  t'  her;  an'  — well,  —  'cause  I  see 
her  in  'n'  out  o'  them  rooms  that  night,  arter  the  paper 
was  signed,  an'  I  thought  ef  anybody  could  make  a 
guess  where  't  was  put,  'n'  lay  hands  on  it,  she 
could." 


496  THE  GAYWOBTHYS. 

"What  night?" 

"Seventeen  year  ago;  the  June  afore  Huldy  'n'  me 
was  merried ;  the  night  of  the  strawberry  frolic,  when 
you  got  inter  the  pig's  pail." 

"The  night  I  had  a  dreadful  dream  and  heard  the 
earthquake,"  said  Say,  thinking  aloud  involuntarily. 
"And  mother  went  down  to  get  me  a  drink  of  water, 
Eben.  I  remember  it  all  very  well." 

She  said  these  last  words  very  deliberately,  looking 
him  in  the  face  as  she  spoke. 

"Did  she  fetch  it?  "  said  Eben  carelessly. 

"No.  Her  light  went  out  and  she  came  back.  I 
remember  it  all  quite  well." 

Her  voice  took  almost  a  defiant  tone,  but  the  quick 
blood  leaped  to  her  cheek.  Was  it  resentment  at  the 
possible  shadow  of  an  ill  thought  in  Eben's  mind?  Or 
was  it  a  hotter  flash  as  she  called  to  remembrance  the 
old  "  earthquake, "  and  the  time,  years  after,  when  she 
heard  it  again;  when  her  grandfather's  will  was  found 
in  the  panel  cupboard;  and  she  had  cried  out  in  her 
surprise  and  her  mother  had  clenched  her  hand  so 
cruelly?  Whatever  it  was,  she  crushed  the  horrible 
intuition  down,  and  would  not  question  it. 

"It  was  a  mewore-able  night,"  remarked  the  man 
sententiously. 

"Go  on,  Eben,"  said  Say,  in  her  calm,  deliberate 
tones  again.  "That  isn't  all.  Why  did  you  think 
we  ought  to  have  '  another  rummage  '  ?  " 

"Well,  ther  was  light  throwed.  On  my  mind. 
That 's  the  part  that  ain't  needful  ter  go  inter,  now. 
Ef  the  paper  ain't  never  found,  't  won't  do  no  good, 
an'  ef  't  is,  why  then  it  would  n't  be  the  leastest  mite 
o'  consequence.  'T  was  only  light  throwed  on  my 
mind  'n'  Huldy's;  that's  all." 

"You  must  tell  me,  Eben.  I  must  have  all  the 
light  there  is.  My  mother  was  anxious  about  this,  I 


SEEKING.  497 

know.  It  was  in  her  last  thoughts.  Now,  it  is  my 
work,  for  her  sake.  You  must  tell  me." 

U'T  might  be  a  satisfaction,  both  ways,  mebbe, " 
said  Eben  thoughtfully.  "It  's  a  kind  'v  a  burden 
to  me;  'n'  you  want  it.  Well,  the  fact  is,  Parson 
Fairbrother  was  a  man  that  was  livin'  a  me-more,  'n' 
keepin'  a  diary  accordin'.  I  found  out  that  much; 
thought  it  likely;  an'  I  've  seen  the  diary;  Miss  Mal- 
viny  showed  it  ter  me.  That  was  all  fair  'n'  square, 
war  n't  it?  " 

"Of  course,  Eben.      Don't  stop." 

"I  never  see  it  but  jest  that  once,  'n'  not  for  more  'n 
three  minutes  then;  but  the  leaves  come  open,  fer 
all  the  world,  's  the  hymnbook  dooes  at  meetin'  some 
times,  't  the  very  number  'n'  line.  An'  there  it  was. 
I  koted  it  t'  yer  mother.  'N'  it  stirred  her  up. 
'June  the  27th,  18 — .  Advised  an'  strengthened 

Brother  G in  a  just  act.     Set  my  hand  to  it  with 

him.  By  the  prompt  in'  o'  the  Lord  the  widder  'n' 
the  fatherless  is  pervided  fur. '  Now  yer  've  got  the 
hull  critter,  horns  'n'  huffs  'n'  all." 

"I  thank  you,  Eben.  I  shall  never  rest  until  that 
paper  is  found." 

She  said  it  very  quietly,  but  all  the  emphasis  that 
could  have  been  laid  upon  the  words  would  have  added 
nothing  to  the  still  force  of  her  air  of  resolution. 

''Only  it  mayn't  be  anywers,  yer  know,"  said 
Eben  provisionally. 

"  I  am  glad  you  told  me  of  the  diary, "  she  went  on, 
disregarding  his  words.  "I  know  now  what  was  in 
my  mother's  mind,  and  how  it  came.  I  know  what  it 
was  she  wanted,  and  why." 

With  these  words  she  turned  and  walked  away. 

"  Ef  yer  dew, "  said  Eben,  relieving  his  feelings  as 
she  moved  out  of  hearing,  "yer  know  what  the  old 
Nickerdemus  hisself  could  n't  find  out  afore." 


498  THE  GAY  WORTHY  S. 

It  was  a  great  comfort  to  know  that  the  light 
"throwed  "  on  Eben's  mind  had  been  a  light  to  hers, 
as  well.  That  she  came  direct  to  Hilbury  intent  upon 
this  duty.  No  wonder  her  poor  eyes  were  so  restless, 
and  eager,  and  distressed. 

The  child's  heart  put  this  pious  fraud  upon  itself, 
and  would  discern  no  clearer ;  would  glance  no  further 
back. 

"  I  will  do  it  for  you,  mother !  "  she  cried  out  into 
the  silence,  while  the  quick  tears  sprang.  And  she 
seemed  to  see  that  quieting  look  again;  calmed,  yet 
pleading ;  as  if  the  eyes  said,  always,  "  Will  you  ?  " 
"You  are  sure  you  will?  " 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

FINDING. 

"AuNT  BECSIE,  "  said  Say  suddenly,  "I  want  you 
to  tell  me  something.  About  my  grandfather's  will." 

After  a  little  pause,  —  "I  stand  in  my  mother's 
place,  now.  I  shall  have  some  business  and  responsi 
bility.  I  want  to  know  just  where  I  stand." 

"It  was  a  very  simple  will,  Say;  made  many  years 
before  his  death,  and  never  altered.  All  he  had,  ex 
cept  this  homestead,  after  some  legacies  were  paid. 

—  your  Aunt  Prue's,  and  Huldah's,  and  some  others, 

—  was  divided  equally  among  us.    Aunt  Prue  had  five 
thousand  dollars.      The  homestead  was  to  remain   for 
the  use  of  either  or  both  of  us,  Joanna  and  me,  so  long 
as  we  should    choose    to    continue    here,    unmarried. 
Eventually,  if  you  lived,  it  would  come  to  you,  Say." 

"Tome?     How?" 

"To  you  unless  —  there  should  be  a  grandson.  To 
the  eldest  male  heir;  failing  males,  to  the  eldest  fe 
male.  It  was  a  little  bit  of  his  old  English  feeling; 
he  wanted  to  keep  the  old  estate  in  the  family." 

"Aunt  Prue  had  five  thousand  dollars.  Was  that 
all?" 

"  Yes ;  we  wished  to  make  it  more,  for  the  property 
was  far  larger  at  the  time  of  your  grandfather's  death 
than  when  the  will  had  been  made.  But  she  would 
not  receive  it." 

"  And  there  was  nothing  for  Gershom  ?  " 

"  He  was  a  very  little  boy  when  the  will  was  made ; 
and  they  had  not  come  here,  then,  to  live." 

"But  grandfather  was  so  fond  of  him!      Don't  you 


500  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

think  it  strange  he  did  not  alter  his  will  and  give  him 
something  afterwards  ?  " 

"I  dare  say  he  thought  of  it.  But  people  put  things 
off  so,  Say!  Greater  things  than  wills.  We  urged 
him,  and  his  mother  both;  but  they  would  let  us  do 
nothing.  Aunt  Prue  is  very  proud;  and  very  blunt 
and  honest,  Say." 

"And  Gershom  is,  too;  honest  and  proud  to  hard 
ness." 

"So  there  it  ended;  we  could  not  force  them  to 
bear  an  unwilling  obligation." 

"But,  Aunt  Becsie,  there  was  a  paper  talked  of, 
once ;  and  searched  for.  There  may  be  something  yet, 
that  is  waiting  to  be  found !  " 

"It  was  thoroughly  sought  for;  it  might  have  been 
nothing;  and  at  all  events,  we  had  to  rest  content.  It 
could  never  be  found." 

"But,  Auntie,  think  of  all  the  places  where  a  little 
paper  might  lie  hid !  And  I  believe  it  was  something. 
Eben  thought  so,  and  he  signed  it.  He  wrote  to 
mother;  he  wasn't  easy,  you  know." 

"How  did  you  know  all  this?  You  were  such  a 
child !  " 

"People  come  to  know  things  somehow,  when  it 's 
time.  And  it 's  time  now  for  me  to  know  this.  I  am 
honest  and  proud,  too,  Auntie.  I  should  like  to 
search,  too.  It 's  my  turn  now!  " 

"It  seemed  so  likely,  Say,  that  if  my  father  had 
written  and  kept  such  a  paper,  it  would  have  been  found 
with  the  will.  And  there  was  nothing  there.  It  is 
very  true  that  a  small  thing  could  be  hidden  away  in 
many  a  common  place;  but  there  are  likely  places 
to  look  in;  there  are  threads  of  probability  to  guide 
us;  or  we  should  be  astray  among  wild  possibilities 
always." 

"It  was  in  that  old  wallet.  I  remember  when  they 
took  it  out." 


FINDING.  501 

"Yes;  quite  b,y  itself  in  that  small  pocket.  The 
large  one  was  full  of  old  letters,  arranged  by  their 
dates  and  tied.  It  was  all  looked  over." 

"And  the  wallet  was  in  the  panel  cupboard.  Auntie, 
I  should  like  to  look  that  old  cupboard  over.  Are  the 
same  things  there  ?  " 

"Mostly.  But  it  is  quite  useless,  Say.  It  has  all 
been  done  before." 

"/haven't  done  it;  and  it 's  my  turn  now,"  per 
sisted  Say.  "Just  think  of  the  old  books.  It  might 
lie  between  the  leaves  of  one ;  or  it  might  have  slipped 
down  into  a  crack.  May  I  look  anywhere  I  like  ?  " 

"Yes,  anywhere.  I  can  see  the  uselessness;  but  I 
can  understand  your  feeling.  And  I  suppose  we  can 
never  be  too  careful  to  be  true, "  said  Aunt  Rebecca. 

"And  if  I  find  a  crack  deep  enough  to  hold  any 
thing,  may  I  have  Mr.  Chisler  here  to  take  down  the 
boards  ?  " 

Say  spoke  playfully,  but  her  heart  was  in  her  pur 
pose,  none  the  less.  Aunt  Becsie  laughed,  but  she  did 
not  ridicule.  The  child  should  have  her  way  and  her 
turn. 

There  came  a  rainy  day  among  the  hills,  in  early 
August. 

People  who  live  in  cities  think,  perhaps,  they  know 
what  a  rainy  day  is ;  a  day  when  there  will  be  no  vis 
itors,  and  the  bell- wire  has  comparative  rest;  when 
they  can  sit  in  wrappers  if  they  like,  and  read  books, 
or  write  letters,  or  do  queer,  stormy- weather  work  that 
they  would  not  bring  out  in  the  sunshine ;  when  the 
streets  seem  to  them  deserted,  although  there  is  yet 
the  rattle  of  incessant  carriages,  bearing  people  who 
must  go  and  cannot  walk ;  and  a  continual  bob  of  shiny 
umbrella- tops,  up  before  the  parlor  windows.  They 
feel  very  safe  and  alone ;  nobody  will  come.  But  they 
know  nothing  of  the  utter  quietude  of  a  rainy  day 


502  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

indoors,  among  the  hills,  and  of  the  still  noise  out. 
When  the  drops  come  down  with  their  soft  sweep  and 
\\hish  among  the  leaves  and  grass;  when  nobody  goes 
up  and  down  the  road;  when  the  oxen  arc  all  housed, 
and  the  farmers  husy  in  their  barns;  v\hen  the  \«T\ 
chickens  run  under  the  fences  and  the  bmshpilc.  and 
only  the  ducks  are  abroad  and  gay.  AY  hen  the  piles 
of  gray  elouds  hang  against  the  mountain-sides,  or 
shift  about  and  bivak  :n\ay.  making  all  sorts  of  new 
geography,  of  islands  and  mountains,  v\herc  the  elitls 
and  ridges  rend  them,  and  come  through  in  patches; 
when  new  relax  s  of  \aporous  hosts  sweep  up  the  windy 
horizon,  and  down  the  hither  slopes,  like  charging 
squadrons;  v\  hen  earth  lies  jussive  in  the  clutch  of  the 
storm,  and  through  all  the  \\ide  heaven  is  the  throng 
ing  and  hurry  and  rush  of  the  great  elements  at  work. 

The  separation.  — the  solitude.  — the  grandeur  of  a 
summer  day's  tempest  like  this,  is  felt  nowhere  as  in 
the  hill-country. 

The  afternoon  was  wearing  on.  They  had  been  all 
day  sitting  in  Rebecca's  room.  The  storm  was  well- 
nigh  spent.  The  wind  had  lulled,  and  the  vain  came 
do\\n  more  gently,  like  the  tears  of  a  half-soothed 
child.  The  mist -robe  lay  torn  and  iluttering  along  the 
hills,  \\reathing  itself  in  soft  folds:  and  here  and 
then-,  behind,  some  crest,  bared  momentarily,  caught 
the  coining  gleam,  and  lay  in  a  green-golden  light. 

Sa\  sat  b\  the  v\  indov\ .  leaning  her  elbow  on  the 
sill,  looking  out  with  a  restlessness  in  her  eyes,  on  the 
shifting  cloud-forms,  and  the  fair,  freshened  tields. 
and  the  red  gable.  shin\-\\et.  do\\n  the  bill  there,  be 
tween  which  and  this  old  house-corner  bad  been  such 
secret  sympathy  and  thought -interchange  of  \e:.rs. 

Sa\  trufi  restless:  like  one  possessed,  as  people  some 
times  say.  Possessed  \\ith  a  thing  that  would  not 
lea\e  her  quictx  until  it  should  be  aec(  uij.lished  at  her 
hand.  It  had  been  upon  her  all  these 


FINDING.  503 

Aunt  Rebecca  was  anxious  about  her.  She  had 
grown  thin.  She  had  little  appetite.  She  was  always 
preoccupied.  Her  eyes  searched  into  corners :  went 
dreamily,  in  wandering  glances,  along  the  very  floors, 
as  if  always  looking  vaguely  for  what  was  lost. 

There  was  scarcely  a  book  in  the  house  that  she  had 
not  run  through  with  fluttering  scrutiny.  The  panel 
cupboard  had  been  ransacked;  only  its  thorough  old 
workmanshp,  wherein  no  crack  had  been  left  or  started. 
saved  it,  apparently,  from  impetuous  demolition.  She 
was  determined  that  this  thing  she  sought  for  should 
be  somewhere.  The  thought  of  it  was  upon  her  al 
ways.  She  was  secretly  suspicious  of  carpets  that  had 
been  up  and  down  a  do/en  times.  She  would  have 
liked  to  get  behind  wall-paper,  and  pry  away  the  very 
wainscot.  It  was  like  an  insanity.  Somewhere,  in 
this  old  home,  lay  a  long-juried  secret;  she  would  not 
be  persuaded,  for  an  instant,  that  it  had  utterly  per 
ished.  Somewhere  lay.  waiting,  this  paper  that  she 
must  find.  She  said  little;  but  it  was  in  her  eyes,  in 
her  whole  expression  and  hearing. 

"You  are  growing  morbid,  Say,  in  this  fancy  of 
yours.  It  is  almost  a  monomania." 

"It  is  laid  upon  me  to  do.  It  presses  harder  every 
day.  The  more  I  fail,  the  more  something  seems  con 
tinually  to  say  to  me,  'You  must  not  give  it  up.' 
Aunt  Rebecca,  I  cannot  help  it." 

They  exchanged  these  words  without  preface,  as 
Say  sat  there  in  the  window,  this  rainy  August  after 
noon. 

Suddenly  Say  started,  and  turned  round. 

"Aunt  Becsie!  You  have  never  given  me  the  old 
letter-case,  itself !  " 

"No,  dear;  because  it  is  quite  empty." 

"I  have  looked  in  a  great  many  empty  places.  I 
must  look  everywhere.  I  climbed  the  other  day  upon 


504  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

the  table,  and  felt  all  along  the  dusty  top  of  that 
old  chest  of  drawers.  I  pulled  the  drawers  out,  and 
looked  underneath  and  behind  them.  I  have  lifted 
the  pictures  from  against  the  walls.  I  am  always 
thinking  of  thin,  narrow  spaces,  where  a  paper  might 
be  slipped  and  hid." 

"Say!  this  is  dreadful!  Have  you  thought  what 
this  implies  ?  Such  a  paper  could  be  hid  in  no  such 
place  by  accident." 

"I  cannot  help  it,"  Say  repeated  feebly,  like  one 
powerless  and  driven  on. 

Rebecca  rose  and  moved  toward  a  curious,  tall, 
triangular  cabinet  that  stood  in  the  corner  of  the  room, 
between  the  fireplace  and  the  door  leading  out  into  the 
kitchen-chamber.  She  stood  up  on  a  chair,  and  put 
her  hand  over  the  top,  behind  the  quaint  carved  mould 
ing,  and  brought  down  a  key. 

With  this  she  opened  two  small  upper  doors. 

Say  watched  her  eagerly.  She  had  not  asked  for 
this,  because  she  knew  it  was  the  one  sacred  place 
which  Aunt  Rebecca  kept  to  herself.  Here  were  her 
letters  from  her  dead  brother  Ben,  written  when  he 
was  away  from  home,  at  Winthorpe  school.  Here 
were  scores  of  little  relics  of  the  dear  old  past,  of 
which  none  but  she  knew  the  association.  Her  mo 
ther's  little  ornaments,  that  had  fallen  to  her  share, 
lay  here.  Here,  also,  she  had  put  away  the  old, 
worn,  yellow  letters,  of  courtship  and  friendship,  that 
had  been  found  in  the  faded,  shapeless  letter-case. 
This  lay  with  them,  folded  into  something  of  its  first 
intended  form,  and  tied  about,  neatly,  with  its  ribbon 
string.  But  it  was  empty.  Aunt  Rebecca  was  very 
precise;  and  its  old,  bulgy,  untidy  look  had  annoyed 
her,  among  the  delicate  order  of  all  else. 

She  opened  the  drawer  in  which  these  things  lay, 
and  drew  forth  the  wallet.  Say  sprang  to  her  side. 


FINDING.  505 

"Don't  open  it,  Auntie!      Let  me!  " 

"Poor  child!  When  will  you  give  this  over?  You 
pain  me,  Say!  " 

"Don't  mind  me,  Auntie!  If  we  can  only  find  the 
truth  !  " 

Then,  like  some  dumb  creature  that  has  found  a 
thing  its  instinct  treasures,  she  turned  away  and  flitted 
to  her  corner  with  it. 

Rebecca  busied  herself  before  the  open  cabinet 
again. 

Suddenly,  a  cry! 

The  resistless  propensity  to  think  always  of  "thin, 
narrow  spaces  where  a  paper  might  be  slipped  and 
hid "  seized  instantly  the  possibility  that  lay  here. 
At  first  sight  of  the  frayed  slit  in  the  brocaded  lining, 
it  swooped  upon  the  truth. 

"How  strange!  how  blind!  "  was  her  inward  ejacu 
lation,  as  a  tumult  of  apprehension  and  certainty  rushed 
over  her,  and  an  inarticulate  cry  escaped  her  lips,  as 
her  fingers  sought  nervously,  and  touched  upon  — 
something,  at  last! 

A  tremor  took  her.  It  was  coming.  This  that  she 
had  longed  for,  that  she  had  vowed  to  compass.  The 
truth  should  come  to  light. 

She  dared  not  prove  it  suddenly,  —  recklessly.  It 
was  a  thing  to  touch  with  a  prayer.  She  gathered  up 
the  loosened  folds  and  sprang  away  to  her  own  room, 
with  that  one  quick  cry.  Round  through  the  great 
kitchen-chamber,  to  the  dimity  bedroom,  where  she 
shut  the  door  and  put  the  button  over  the  latch,  and 
went  down  by  the  bedside  on  her  knees. 

The  old  wallet  lay  open  upon  the  bed.  Her  head 
was  down  an  instant  between  her  hands.  She  could 
not  think,  in  words.  Her  heart  gave  two  great 
springs. 

"O  God!— O  my  mother!" 


506  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

Then  she  put  her  finger  back  into  the  opening.  Hei 
pure,  honest,  earnest  touch  fell  where  Jane's  had 
fallen  last. 

She  drew  the  paper  forth. 

A  tiny  thing  rolled  with  it  on  the  white  counter 
pane.  A  little  pin-point  of  light. 

It  flashed  over  the  whole  long  mystery,  and  made  it 
clear.  Horribly  clear,  to  the  instant  apprehension  of 
the  child,  bearing  penance,  here,  for  her  mother's  old, 
mute  sin. 

A  recognition  and  a  memory  leaped,  each  to  the 
other,  striking  fire  of  evidence. 

This  particle  of  precious  crystal ;  the  wonderful  old 
ring  her  mother  wore  when  Say  had  been  a  child,  whose 
tiny  gems  were  placed  to  spell  a  word;  the  empty  set 
ting  at  the  end  where  a  diamond  had  been;  lost  out, 
ever  so  long  ago,  she  remembered,  one  summer,  —  when 
they  had  been  at  Hilbury!  Cast  aside  ever  since,  and 
lying,  now,  in  the  little  jewel-case  that  held  her  trin 
kets.  Ruby,  emerald,  garnet,  amethyst,  ruby, — the 
diamond  atom  gone. 

That  which  keeps  the  delicate  links  safe  in  the  dead 
rock,  whereby  men  spell  the  secrets  of  old  cycles,  takes 
care  also  of  all  minutest,  marvelous,  most  precarious 
links  whereby  a  knowledge  is  to  come.  Nothing  is 
strange  or  difficult,  in  this  old  world,  written  all  over 
with  frail  yet  unperishing  records  of  life,  and  fate,  and 
human  deed. 

There  is  nothing  hidden,  but  shall  be  made  mani 
fest,  —  when  once  the  hour  has  come. 

She  could  not  rush  to  proclaim  that  she  had  found 
it.  Fifteen  minutes  after,  she  lifted  the  button  from 
her  latch,  threw  back  the  door,  sat  down  in  a  chair, 
and  waited. 

Rebecca  came.  Pale  and  quiet,  Say  sat  there, 
knowing  that  she  would  come.  Her  earnest  eyes  lifted 


FINDING.  507 

themselves  up  and  met  Rebecca's  face,  with  a  strange 
calm  in  them. 

"Here  it  is,"  she  said;  the  paper  lying  open  upon 
her  lap ;  her  hands  laid,  or  rather  dropped  passively 
across  it.  "Send  for  Aunt  Prue  and  Gershom,  please." 

She  did  not  offer  to  give  or 'show  it.  There  was  a 
singular  still  assumption  in  the  young  girl  of  the  right 
and  part  she  had  in  this  family  event  and  crisis. 

"It  concerns  us  all,  Say,  you  know,"  said  Aunt  Re 
becca,  with  a  shade  of  rebuking  expectation  in  her 
tone. 

"Yes,  Auntie,"  returned  Say,  with  a  look  that 
pleaded  to  have  its  pain,  its  unreasonableness,  even, 
borne  with.  "But  them  most,  and  me.  It  is  be 
tween  us  first.  It  must  be.  There  is  no  question 
with  you.  You  are  honest  and  true,  —  you  and  Aunt 
Joanna.  Wait,  just  a  little." 

For  the  child's  sake,  sitting  there  with  this  strange 
spell  upon  her,  Rebecca  had  patience,  setting  aside 
her  own  rightful  and  grave  interest.  There  was  a 
something,  also,  that  she  could  not  have  disputed  if 
she  would.  Something  in  the  girl's  air,  strong  and 
authorized;  something  in  the  very  gravity  of  this  dis 
closure  that  was  impending.  It  was  not  a  thing  to 
be  clutched  at,  —  to  be  pounced  upon.  There  is  an 
instinct  of  decorous  order,  delaying  impulse,  in  the 
momentous  arrivals  of  life. 

Miss  Gayworthy  went  downstairs  and  gave  a  direc 
tion. 

Gershom  Vorse  had  been  for  the  greater  part  of  this 
interval  of  time,  since  that  pleasant  spring  day  when 
he  and  Blackmere  had  come  home  together,  at  the  hill- 
farm  with  his  mother.  He  had  been  up  and  down, 
between  Hilbury  and  the  city  and  a  seashore  town  be 
yond,  where  a  great  ship  was  building,  that  he  was  to 
command.  But  there  had  been  long,  quiet  weeks,  such 


508  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

as  he  might  not  have  again  for  years,  that  he  had  heen 
spending  with  his  mother.  Blackmere  had  been  here, 
too,  for  a  while ;  but  he  was  like  the  great  amphibia ; 
he  could  come  up  from  the  deep  for  a  little,  to  live  and 
breathe  on  absolute  dry  land ;  he  could  not  stay  long 
without  a  sniff  of  the  salt  sea.  Gershom  was  here 
now  by  himself,  with  cousin  "Wealthy  and  his  mother. 

Say  had  seen  little  of  him;  that  little  under  restraint 
of  her  great  grief,  as  well  as  of  all  else  that  lay  be 
tween  the  two.  But  the  feeling  of  his  neighborhood 
had  been  a  strong  element  in  the  force  that  had  im 
pelled  and  possessed  her  in  all  these  weeks  of  one  per 
sistent  thought. 

If  she  could  only  do  it  now!  He  might  never 
come  back  again.  He  might  never  know. 

It  was  done.     It  had  come.     It  lay  within  her  hand. 

Three  quarters  of  an  hour  later  a  covered  wagon 
drove  into  the  yard. 

Rebecca  had  gone  back  to  Say,  after  sending  off  her 
messenger  to  Wealthy 's;  but  she  had  not  stayed.  Say 
hardly  heeded  her  coming  in.  She  was  unlike  herself. 
She  sat  there,  saying  nothing,  apparently  feeling 
nothing  of  the  pause  that  ordinarily  seems  almost  to 
demand  speech;  waiting,  only;  holding  the  refolded 
paper  fast  within  her  hand,  a  pale  resolve  and  expec 
tation  on  her  face.  Rebecca  would  not  watch;  she 
asked  no  further  question ;  she  went  away  softly,  pres 
ently,  and  waited  also  with  an  anxiety.  She  saw  that 
there  was  something  beyond  the  mere  finding,  and  that 
the  child  would  have  her  way. 

"  Send  them  into  the  little  room,  please, "  Say  said, 
when  Miss  Gayworthy  came  round  and  looked  in  upon 
her,  before  descending  to  meet  Prudence  Vorse  and 
her  son. 

"Send."  Rebecca  was  to  wait  a  little  yet,  even. 
Truly,  "standing  in  her  mother's  place,"  the  girl 


FINDING.  509 

seemed  suddenly  to  take  the  elder  right  upon  her. 
The  good  lady  was  half -pained,  with  a  little  natural 
human  hurt  and  jealousy;  but  she  could  not  expostu 
late;  there  was  too  real  an  earnestness  upon  the  child. 
Let  it  be  so.  Let  her  still  have  her  way.  God  grant 
this  strange  high  tension  of  nerve  and  will  may  end  in 
nothing  worse. 

The  two  —  Gershom  Vorse  and  his  mother  —  were 
led  into  the  little  room. 

"It  is  Say  who  wants  you.  Something  has  hap 
pened,  I  hardly  know  what ;  "  and  very  much  surprised 
at  their  summons  and  reception,  they  waited  there  for 
the  moment  while  Miss  Gayworthy  left  them,  and  be 
fore  Say  came  in.  They  looked  up  wonderingly,  as 
the  quiet  figure  entered,  and  the  pale,  still  face  con 
fronted  them.  Say  shut  the  door  behind  her,  and  the 
three  stood  there  together,  by  themselves. 

There  was  nothing  in  this  of  preparation  for  effect; 
no  touch  of  dramatic  climax ;  it  was  the  still  earnest 
ness  of  a  hard,  imperative  necessity  for  doing,  —  tax 
ing  all  power  and  resolve,  and  leaving  no  room  for 
thought  of  what  appeared,  that  gave  intensity  to  the 
little  scene,  and  caused  it  to  shape  itself. 

"I  sent  for  you,  Aunt  Prue.  I  wanted  to  see  you 
here.  I  have  found  something."  Her  voice  came 
dry  and  changed,  but  her  tones  were  very  quiet.  "Aunt 
Prue  —  Gershom  —  I  am  here  in  my  mother's  place, 
to-day,  to  give  you  this." 

She  held  the  paper  out.  Old,  yellow,  it  almost  bore 
its  story  on  its  face. 

Prudence  Vorse  took  it,  and  Say  waited. 

Aunt  Prue  was  fifty-two  years  old.  She  took  her 
spectacles  out  of  her  pocket  and  put  them  on.  Com 
monplaces  come  into  everything. 

She  opened  the  folds  mechanically,  and  her  eye  went 
over  the  lines  almost  without  surprise.  Nothing  could 


510  THE  GAY  WORTHY S. 

have  so  surprised  or  seized  such  hold  of  her  as  the  look 
and  tone,  restrained  and  simple,  yet  earnest  to  such 
agony,  of  the  girl  who  stood  before  her,  waiting,  — 
Jane  Gair's  child. 

What  this  thing  imported  to  herself  dropped  out 
of  sight  as  she  discerned  it,  in  view  of  what  it  had 
imported  to  this  other. 

She  took  her  glasses  off  when  she  had  read.  She 
took  off  with  them  a  look  that  Say  had  known  her 
face  by;  a  hard  look  of  long  years. 

She  reached  the  paper  to  her  son,  as  a  thing  to  be 
thought  of  presently;  now  she  came  straight  over 
toward  where  Say  stood.  She  would  have  taken  her 
by  the  hand. 

"Not  yet,"  cried  the  girl,  with  a  sudden  sharpness. 
Then  with  one  caught  breath,  she  toned  her  voice  again 
to  quietness. 

"That  is  not  all.  Aunt  Prue,  I  am  here  for  my 
mother.  It  must  be  confessed.  It  was  a  hiding,  and 
—  a  lie.  Aunt  Prue,  forgive  me,  for  my  mother!  " 

Then  Prue  took  her  in  her  honest  arms.  Never, 
even  as  a  little  child,  had  she  held  her  so  before.  She 
was  a  Gay  worthy. 

Gershom  turned  away  a  little.  A  red  flush  swept 
up  over  his  face,  and  a  great  heart-throb  swelled  into 
his  throat.  There  was  no  lying  blood  in  her,  after 
all! 

But  Say  had  not  come  here  for  a  scene.  She  had 
never  thought  of  herself,  or  of  how  they  would  take  it. 
It  had  all  been  for  her  mother.  She  had  finished  her 
work,  and  she  must  go. 

"It  is  all  done,  now,"  she  said,  with  a  low,  long 
sigh,  as  one  might  who  had  voluntarily  and  bravely 
borne  a  fearful  pain.  "  I  am  so  thankful  I  Tell  it  to 
Aunt  Rebecca." 

And,  almost  before  they  were  quite  aware,  —  before 


FINDING.  511 

Gershom  had  recovered  himself,  and  come  to  her  with 
his  outstretched  hand,  she  had  withdrawn  herself,  and 
gone,  in  the  same  still,  pale  way  that  she  had  come. 

Afterward,  Rebecca  found  her  lying  on  her  bed, 
white,  motionless,  exhausted,  peaceful;  like  one  from 
whom  a  tormenting  spirit  had,  at  last,  gone  out. 

Aunt  Prue  came  up  and  kissed  her,  silently,  before 
she  went.  At  this,  two  tears  swelled  up  under  the 
half-shut  lids,  and  rolled  down  softly  over  the  pure, 
pale  cheeks. 

She  took  this,  also,  for  her  mother. 

Perhaps  those  drops  of  innocent,  tender,  loving 
pain  went  far,  somehow,  in  God's  mercy,  to  purge 
the  sin-stain  of  a  late  repentant  soul. 

All  Hilbury  came  to  know  it  soon ;  not  the  whole, 
but  that  this  paper  had  been  strangely  found.  All 
Hilbury  wanted  to  know  all  it  could ;  and  what  all 
Hilbury  demanded  and  came  to  know,  the  reader  has 
a  claim  for  also. 

This  was  the  paper. 

I  hereby  direct  that  in  the  division  and  disposal, 
according  to  any  will  that  I  may  leave,  or  otherwise, 
of  whatever  estate  I  may  die  possessed  of,  Prudence 
Vorse,  child  of  my  late  wife,  Rachel,  by  her  former 
marriage,  or  her  son,  Gershom  Vorse,  inheriting  after 
her,  be  counted  and  considered  among  my  heirs,  to 
take  such  share  and  privilege  as  would  so  fall  to  her, 
or  to  him  through  her,  if  she,  the  said  Prudence 
Vorse,  were  child  of  my  own  body. 

This  is  my  will  to  the  setting  aside  of  anything  that 
conflicts  herewith,  in  any  writing  that  I  may  before 
have  made ;  but  to  the  altering  of  nothing  else,  except 
that  this  is  to  take  the  place  of  any  smaller  bequest  of 
mine,  of  former  date,  to  the  said  Prudence,  hereby 
provided  for.  And  I  charge  my  heirs  and  whomso- 


512  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

ever  into  whose  hands  this  writing  may  fall,  to  see 
my  will  done  in  this  thing. 

Signed,  this  night,  June  27th,  18 — . 

BENJAMIN  GAYWORTHY. 
In  presence  of 
FELIX  FAIRBROTHER, 
HULDAH  BROWN, 
EBENEZER  HATCH. 

They  were  all  honest  people.  They  asked  nothing 
of  the  law.  Neither  party  concerned  questioned  for 
an  instant,  "whether  it  would  stand."  It  was  the 
plain  will  of  him  who  had  been  gone  from  them  so 
long,  solemnly  charged  upon  them  all. 

The  Hartshornes,  Miss  Gayworthy,  Sarah  Gair,  — 
they  were  to  make  this  thing  right. 

But  nobody,  save  Sarah  Gair  herself,  knew  what  it 
was  to  be  for  her  to  do. 

The  sale  of  the  house  in  Selport  had  been  effected ; 
she  had  had  letters  from  Mr.  Brinley,  apprising  her 
that  she  must  come  to  town  for  the  signing  of  neces 
sary  papers,  and  the  final  settlement  of  her  affairs. 
Meanwhile,  she  wrote,  informing  him  fully  of  this 
new  posture  of  things ;  begging  also  that  the  business 
might  be  kept,  for  the  present,  carefully  between  her 
own  knowledge  and  his. 

Hilbury  was  greatly  exercised.  Eben  and  Huldah 
were  under  solemn  promise  to  Say.  It  was  thought 
to  be  pure  accident  or  providence,  the  finding  of  this 
momentous  writing,  so  long  concealed ;  and  it  was 
turned  over  and  over  in  small  mouths  and  minds,  as 
great  marvels  and  providences  are. 

Eben  and  Huldah  had  their  private  comparison  of 
impressions,  on  "the  strange  way  things  had  worked." 

"A  feller  can't  allers  fetch  a  thing,  hisself, "  quoth 
the  blunt  farmer,  "ef  he  is  a  witness.  But  —  it  gits 
fetched!" 


CHAPTER  XL. 

THRUMS    AGAIN. 

MR.  BRINLEY  knew  better.  At  least,  man-fashion, 
dealing  so  with,  and  in  the  interest  of,  a  young,  inex 
perienced  woman,  he  thought  he  did.  When  Gershom 
Vorse,  coming  down  to  Selport,  sought  him  out  and 
questioned  him,  he  let  out,  incontinently,  all  the  cats 
Say  thought  she  had  so  securely  tied  in  his  legal  and 
executorial  bag,  by  the  hard  knots  of  confidence  and 
honor.  He  humored  her  in  his  reply ;  but  he  lifted  his 
keen,  practical  eyebrows  very  high  over  her  romance 
of  self-beggary  and  magnificent  restitution.  All  right, 
doubtless,  in  moral  theory ;  but  moral  theory  was  not 
the  only  thing  with  him ;  far  less,  youthful  quixotism 
of  generosity.  There  was  also  common-sense,  which 
lay  more  in  his  line. 

Here  was  a  girl  with  fourteen  thousand  dollars ;  the 
sale  of  the  house  had  given  her  three  thousand  above 
the  mortgage ;  there  had  been  eleven  thousand  beside, 
after  paying  all  that  had  been  incurred  in  their  year's 
living  and  business  expenses.  All  at  once,  she  finds 
herself  to  be  one  of  three  persons  who  are  to  make  up 
to  a  fourth  a  withheld  inheritance  of  thirty  thousand. 
Everybody  else  concerned  being  amply  able;  she, 
alone,  forced  to  render  up  nearly  all  her  living. 
And  this  must  be  done  quietly,  forsooth;  the  friends 
kept  ignorant  of  actual  facts  till  all  should  be  securely 
accomplished. 

Not  so  fast,  Miss  Gair.  Mr.  Brinley  took  the 
reins  very  quietly  into  his  own  hands. 

'"How    will    this    leave    her?'      With    just    about 


514  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

enough  to  buy  her  three  or  four  gowns  and  a  bonnet  in 
a  year!  "  returned  the  lawyer  to  Captain  Vorse's  ques 
tions. 

"And  she  knows  this?  " 

"Humph!  As  women  generally  know  such  things. 
She  's  on  the  high-ropes  of  justice  and  magnanimity 
just  now.  Wants  it  to  be  done  at  once,  and  kept 
quiet.  The  bonnets  and  gowns  will  come  afterwards, 
somehow!  Women  can't  calculate;  especially  girls. 
And  of  all  girls,  this  one,  more  particularly." 

This  one!      Jane  Gair's  child! 

Gershom  Yorse  walked  down  to  the  railway  station 
on  the  day  when  the  Hilbury  party  was  expected. 
They  were  all  coming;  his  mother,  the  Hartshornes, 
Rebecca,  and  Say.  There  had  been  a  plan  for  coming 
down,  since  early  spring;  Jane's  arrival,  illness,  and 
death  had  put  it  by;  now,  there  was  this  business  to 
do,  and  it  might  as  well  be  all  transacted  together. 

Captain  Vorse  had  engaged  comfortable  rooms  for 
them  at  a  hotel;  he  was  to  meet  them  on  this  Tues 
day,  at  the  coming  in  of  the  northern  train. 

They  were  strange  thoughts  he  had,  sitting  there  in 
the  waiting-room  those  twenty  minutes  before  the  cars 
were  due. 

Were  there  a  thought-photograph,  it  might  take 
curious  instantaneous  views  at  these  momentary  meet 
ing-points  of  diverse  and  incongruous  lives.  For  after 
people  have  got  their  tickets,  and  have  asked  their 
questions,  and  counted  up  their  railway  wraps  and  par 
cels,  and  find  ten  minutes  or  so  upon  their  hands,  they 
do  think  queer  thoughts  about  themselves  and  about 
each  other. 

There  was  a  knot  of  Selport  school-girls,  going  five 
or  six  miles  home  to  dinner,  by  a  branch  train,  pres 
ently;  there  came  in  with  them  all  the  atmosphere  of 
school  chat  and  young  egotism,  ignoring  all  else  in  the 


THRUMS  AGAIN.  515 

great  world  but  its  small  growing  self.  There  were 
girls  of  a  different  social  order,  going  out  of  town  to 
"places,"  with  their  bundles  and  tickets  held  in  fast 
grip;  of  these  the  greater  part  to  come  back,  with 
turned-up  noses,  by  return  trains ;  there  being  so  few 
"first-class "  opportunities,  with  hot-and-cold- water 
conveniences,  and  adequate  visiting  and  convivial  priv 
ileges,  in  this  line  of  life.  There  was  a  bride  of  three 
or  four  hours'  making,  very  conscious  and  important, 
in  her  fresh,  delicate  traveling  dress  and  lavender 
ribbons;  there  were  hard,  solitary  men,  on  runs  of 
business,  with  eyes  and  noses  and  chins  all  sharpened 
to  the  business  point.  There  were  friends  to  see  off 
friends;  and  friends  to  see  friends  back  again.  There 
were  innumerable  babies.  And  trains  were  announced 
and  departed;  and  people's  thoughts  were  broken  off 
short ;  and  there  was  great  gathering  up  of  parcels  and 
shawls  at  last  minutes ;  and  babies  were  taken  by  sur 
prise,  as  the  little  miserables  continually  are,  being 
shouldered  again,  just  as  they  had  settled  comfortably 
in  arms,  or  subsided,  with  no  questions  asked,  just 
when  the  world  around  had  begun  to  be  vaguely  intel 
ligible  and  interesting  from  their  temporary  outlook. 
Tired  mothers  gave  the  last  consolidating  shake  and 
twist,  and  papas  came  in  in  time  to  put  on  all  the 
small  bonnets  upside  down;  and  through  all  this  and 
much  more,  Gershom  Vorse  waited  and  thought  one 
thought;  over  and  over;  out  and  out. 

Seventeen  years  ago  a  thing  had  been  hidden  away. 
A  thing  that  concerned  his"  worldly  fortune,  which  all 
this  time  he  had  done  without.  All  this  time  he  had 
gone  his  way,  unwitting  of  it,  and  the  world,  so,  had 
taken  a  different  turn  with  him,  for  life. 

Was  it  only  this  paper  that  had  lain  hidden  ?  Was 
it  only  worldly  fortune  that  stood  affected  ?  What 
other  thing  was  this  which  had  come  to  light  with  it, 


516  THE  GAY  WORTHY  S. 

whereof  he  had  been  unknowing,  unbelieving,  also,  all 
these  years  ?  What  other  possible  gift  of  God  that 
had  been  so  withheld,  or  thrust  away  ? 

The  truth  of  a  human  soul,  that  he  would  not  see ; 
that  a  falsehood  quite  outside  of  it  had  blinded  him  to. 
The  love  of  a  human  heart  that  had  "grown  up  with 
him  in  it ;  "  that  he  had  ignored  and  gone  without, 
half-living ;  that  he  would  not  take,  when,  for  a  mo 
ment,  it  lay  before  him;  that,  crushing  his  own  love 
down,  he  had  wounded  sorely,  and  crushed  out  also; 
that  shone  now  to  his  thought  as  something  afar,  that 
he  might  never  reach.  He,  —  the  hard  man  of  thirty ; 
grown  into  the  thing  that  he  had  willed  himself  to 
be;  distrustful,  unsatisfied;  "watching,  carping,  fault 
finding;"  with  but  one  love  and  one  friendship  to  keep 
him  human,  —  his  mother,  and  the  man  of  harder  life 
than  his. 

And  now  his  very  honor  rose  up  shoulder  to 
shoulder  with  his  love,  that  sprang,  as  it  were,  from 
out  its  grave  where  he  had  buried  it. 

His  honor,  his  pride,  that  fumed,  helpless.  She 
had  him  at  her  mercy ;  the  foot  of  her  nobleness  was 
upon  his  neck.  It  was  useless  to  resist ;  to  say  that  he 
would  have  nothing  of  this  money ;  it  was  not  she  alone 
who  held  it ;  moreover,  it  was  not  his  yet  to  reject. 

They  had  no  right,  Prudence  Vorse  and  her  son,  to 
refuse  these  other  upright  consciences  a  justice  to 
themselves,  —  to  the  memory  of  their  father,  the  just 
man  gone.  There  was  something  in  the  clear  nature 
of  the  woman  who  would  not  take  a  strawberry  unpaid 
for,  and  who  would  take  her  due  to  the  value  of  a 
cent,  which  recognized  the  plain  right,  and  demanded 
it,  wherever  it  lay.  The  right  to  pay,  no  less  than  to 
receive,  a  due ;  it  forced  the  concession,  more  generous 
often  than  a  gift,  which  one  honorable  soul  must  make 
another. 


THRUMS  AGAIN.  517 

So  the  strong  man  fought  with  his  thoughts,  waiting 
there,  seated,  regarding  absently  the  life  about  him, 
or  pacing  restlessly  the  now  vacated  platform,  as  the 
time  came  and  passed  when  the  train  should  have  been 
there. 

Fifteen  minutes  behind ;  then  it  came  thundering  in. 

Instantly,  a  crowd,  and  a  rush,  and  a  shouting,  and 
a  hurling  of  luggage,  all  over  the  space  where  a  mo 
ment  before  had  been  almost  emptiness  and  stillness. 
In  the  midst  of  the  confusion  he  held  his  place,  watch 
ing;  and  as  the  crowd  resolved  itself,  they  emerged 
from  it  at  last,  —  the  little  party  that  belonged  to 
him,  —  Gabriel  Hartshorne,  Joanna,  Rebecca,  Pru 
dence,  and  Say. 

There  was  a  great  hotel  coach  in  waiting;  there  was 
a  porter  ready  to  take  checks  and  transfer  luggage. 
Gabriel  took  care  of  his  wife  and  sister;  Gershom  had 
his  mother  and  Say  to  his  share.  So  they  moved  on, 
and  went  out  together,  after  a  very  hurried  greeting 
and  grasp  of  hands.  A  minute  that  had  loomed  up 
almost  like  a  life,  to  two  thoughts  there,  had  come, 
and  was  over.  Over,  with  scarcely  a  word,  or  other 
outward  thing  to  mark  it;  as  some  of  our  intensest 
moments  are :  she  had  had  her  hand  upon  his  arm ;  he 
had  held  her  close,  and  she  had  clung,  in  the  crowd 
and  tumult  of  an  instant ;  that  was  all ;  they  had  been 
just  like  any  other  people ;  as  Say  had  hoped,  looking 
forward  to  this  meeting  with  something  of  the  old 
questioning  and  dread,  they  might  be;  as  Gershom, 
with  a  strange,  new  apprehension,  was  beginning  to 
fear  they  must  be. 

"If  he  would  only  treat  her,  and  trust  her,  now,  as 
he  did  the  rest !  " 

"If  he  had  not  been  a  fool,  she  might  have  been  to 
him  what  the  whole  world,  perhaps,  did  not  hold  for 
him  now !  ' 


518  THE  GAY  WORTHY  S. 

The  current  of  their  two  lives  set  together  again,  for 
a  while ;  neither  could  help  that ;  both  were  strangely 
and  secretly  glad ;  both  had  felt  this  point  of  meeting 
from  afar.  Yet  Ger shorn  was  writhing  in  his  man's 
pride,  that  felt  itself  stabbed ;  under  this  late,  sting 
ing  recognition  of  a  thing  better  than  legacy  of  land 
or  money,  lost  to  him,  hidden  away,  put  behind  him 
with  his  own  hand,  for  years ;  years  that  had  settled 
all  his  cheerless  life  for  him.  And  Say  was  hoping 
only  to  be  treated  like  the  rest,  at  last ;  only  thinking 
of  this  one  thing  that  remained  to  her  to  do,  —  this 
act  of  restitution  for  her  mother's  sake;  thinking  that 
she  should  stand  at  last,  for  a  moment,  on  the  manifest 
level  of  this  man  that  had  despised  her;  side  by  side, 
and  face  to  face,  with  him ;  and  then  go,  contentedly, 
her  own  way,  alone.  She  thought  even  that  she  had 
ceased  to  love  him,  in  these  long,  hard  years. 

"There  is  one  way  to  help  it,"  said  Gershom  Vorse 
to  his  mother,  when  he  had  ended  telling  her  all  that 
Mr.  Brinley  had  made  known. 

"There  is  but  one  thing  for  you  to  do,"  said  Prue, 
looking  him  straight  in  the  eyes.  "If  you  can  do  it, 
as  a  man  should,  and  not  make  it  a  worse  thing  than 
the  other." 

Into  the  eyes  she  searched  there  came  a  flash. 

"You  say  it,  mother?  " 

"I  do  say  it,"  said  Prudence  Vorse,  reading  the 
certification  of  his  life-story  that  she  guessed,  in  that 
one,  quick  gleam. 

An  hour  after,  Prue  got  the  rest  away ;  Gabriel  and 
Joanna  were  easily  sent  off  together;  and  she  took 
Rebecca  to  her  own  room  on  a  pretense,  and  kept  her 
there  with  the  truth;  and  Gershom  Vorse  and  Sarah 
Gair  were  left  together  in  the  parlor  appropriated  to 
the  use  of  this  family  party.  Alone  together,  these 


THRUMS  AGAIN.  519 

two;  who  had  not  been  so  since  the  moment,  five 
years  since,  when  Say  had  given  him  the  word  —  God's 
word  —  that  had  come  to  her  in  her  pain,  and  they 
had  parted. 

Straight  to  her  side,  with  a  purpose  in  his  face,  the 
sailor  came.  She  looked  up  as  he  stood  beside  her, 
and  all  through  her  this  outshining  purpose  of  his  quiv 
ered  and  thrilled. 

"I  've  something  to  say  to  you, "  he  said.  It  sounded 
short  and  abrupt,  and  he  did  not  use  her  name.  But 
there  was  a  something,  not  quick  and  harsh,  but,  rather, 
earnest  and  deep,  in  his  tone ;  and  that  she  caught, 
and  it  thrilled  her  the  more. 

"Before  all  this  is  done.  It  is  more  than  this  will 
of  my  grandfather's  that  you  have  brought  to  light. 
You  've  shown  me  yourself.  There  's  more  than  money 
justice  to  be  done.  I  've  wronged  you  in  my  thinking 
of  you,  all  my  life.  I  've  wronged  you,  and  myself; 
because  —  I  love  you." 

Dead  silence.  A  flush,  that  came  up  from  her  heart, 
and  sent  great  tears  into  her  eyes,  lit  Say's  face,  and 
went  away  and  left  it  pale  again.  But  she  could  not, 
for  the  moment,  speak  a  word. 

"Is  it  any  use,  —  now  ?  "  asked  the  plain,  blunt  man, 
humbling  himself  so,  from  his  hardness,  with  that 
pause,  and  that  "now." 

She  must  answer,  something. 

"Why  have  you  said  this  —  now?  "  She  parodied, 
with  a  sudden  bitterness  of  pain,  his  question.  There 
was  joy  and  there  was  pain  in  her,  hearing  his  words. 
But  pain  came  uppermost.  The  joy  had  been  put  by 
so  long!  She  thought  that  she  had  ceased  to  love  him 
with  that  old,  utter  love,  in  those  long,  hard  years. 

"  Because  —  now,  —  if  you  will,  —  I  must  have  you 
for  my  wife,  Say !  " 

It  was  real,  urgent,  pleading  passion  that  sent  forth 


520  THE  GAYWORTHYS. 

these  words;  but  it  sent  them  forth  after  the  manner 
of  the  man. 

It  almost  seemed  as  if  he  had  come,  at  his  own 
time,  to  claim  her;  who  had  been  his,  waiting  his 
time. 

"You  are  true  and  generous;  be  true  and  generous 
in  this;  forgive  me;  and  let  there  be  but  one  right 
between  us." 

He  wanted  this,  then !  To  give  her  back  her  money ! 
This  was  why  he  said  it,  —  "  now  "  ! 

Her  evil  angel  stood  by  and  whispered  it. 

"I  haven't  done  it  to  buy  your  love,  Gershom!  " 
she  cried,  in  a  superb  flash.  Pride  tingled  all  over 
her,  from  her  head  to  her  feet,  and  sparkled  from  her, 
like  a  thing  overcharged  with  electricity.  Whatever 
other  force  had  been  there,  it  was  driven  out. 

"And  my  love  is  not  a  thing  to  £e  bought, "  the  man 
said,  as  superbly.  "I  have  told  you  honest  truth." 

She  repented  of  her  bitterness ;  her  pain  smote  back, 
with  double  force,  upon  herself,  alone. 

He  had  called  her  true  and  generous  at  last.  Had 
she  not  lived,  and  looked,  for  this  ? 

But,  love?  She  would  be  true  and  generous,  at 
least.  She  thought  that  hour  of  love  gone  by.  It  had 
been  too  long.  Hearts  miss  each  other,  so;  and  lives 
run  separate.  The  orbits  intersect ;  but  when  the  sec 
ond  sphere  springs,  radiant,  to  the  summer-point  of 
meeting,  the  other  has  rolled  on,  alone,  into  a  winter 
chill. 

"I  have  told  you  that  I  love  you.  As  a  man  should 
love  the  woman  he  asks  to  be  his  wife.  I  never  said 
the  word  to  a  woman  before.  Have  you  no  love  to 
give  me  ?  I  do  not  believe  it !  " 

In  strange,  upright,  downright  fashion,  this  wooer 
sued ;  making  his  virgin  speech  of  love. 

It  helped  her  to  be  outright,  too,  as  women   seldom 


THEUMS  AGAIN.  521 

have  the  nerve-courage  to  be,  answering  such  words  of 
men. 

"You  shall  have  the  truth  of  me,  Gershom,  as  if  we 
two  stood  in  heaven.  I  cannot  help  what  you  are  to 
me ;  what  you  have  always  been.  God  has  put  it  into 
my  life.  Neither  can  you  help  it.  It  lies  between  us 
and  must  be.  But  —  I  will  not  be  your  wife."  She 
said  it  slow  and  low ;  the  words  came  hard,  but  they 
came  clearly.  "My  husband  must  not  have  even  the 
memory  of  a  contempt  for  me.  He  must  not  have 
been  persuaded  or  convinced  into  loving  me.  Above 
all,  he  must  never  have  distrusted  me.  Gershom,  you 
have  distrusted  me  —  my  very  nature.  You  have  de 
spised  and  disbelieved  me.  If  you  had  any  love  for 
me,  you  fought  against  it,  and  left  me  to  fight  against 
mine  as  I  might.  I  have  made  something  of  it  so 
that  I  do  not  understand  myself:  a  dull,  half-mur 
dered  thing  that  will  not  die ;  but  that  cannot  be,  I 
think,  ever  again  the  old,  bright,  living  love.  What 
lies  between  us  must  be ;  we  will  be  at  peace,  we  will 
be  friends  with  each  other,  but  we  will  not  marry. " 

"A  blessed  peace  you  give  me!  Say,  you  throw  me 
back  into  my  distrust  of  earth  and  heaven !  " 

"  If  that  be  possible,  you  can  hardly  ever  have  come 
out  of  it." 

"You  taunt  me,  Say!" 

The  pure,  grieved  spirit  looked  forth  from  her  eyes. 

"God  knows  I  do  no  such  thing.  Did  I  ever  taunt 
you  ?  Should  I  be  likely  to  do  so  now  ?  Oh,  Gershom ! 
I  said  my  husband  must  have  faith  in  me ;  but  more 
than  all,  in  a  higher  faith  he  must  be  strong  for  me. 
He  must  stand  nearer  to  God  than  I.  It  was  this  I 
meant ;  it  was  this  I  doubted.  I  could  not  taunt.  I 
did  not." 

He  felt  that,  and  his  look  softened ;  his  candor  did 
her  instant  justice. 


522  THE  GAYWOBTHYS. 

u  You  say  true.  You  never  did.  It  is  I  that  have 
taunted.  But  you  punish,  Say!  You  show  me  what 
you  are,  and  you  tell  me  it  is  too  late." 

"I  don't  know  what  is  too  late.  God  will  make 
whatever  He  means  of  it.  It  is  between  us,  Gershom, 
as  I  said.  We  are  not  like  other  people.  But  —  I 
do  not  think  —  we  can  be  ever  —  husband  and  wife." 

She  said  it  slow  and  low,  as  before ;  as  if  thinking 
it  out.  It  was  worse  than  retaliation;  it  was  worse 
than  a  meant  punishment.  It  was  the  inevitable  re 
sult  of  things;  the  attitude  into  which  human  rela 
tions  that  will  not  stand  still  and  wait,  that  can  never 
twice  in  the  same  lifetimes  be  precisely  the  same,  had 
come,  by  long  bearing  and  pressure,  and  slow,  imper 
ceptible  shiftings,  to  take  between  these  two. 

He  saw;  he  acknowledged;  but  he  chafed,  for  the 
moment,  as  men  will. 

"It  must  be  all,  or  nothing,  with  us,"  he  said,  with 
an  angry  bitterness. 

"I  cannot  make  it  all.  It  must  be  nothing,  I  sup 
pose,  if  you  will  have  it  so,  —  for  a  while.  After 
wards,  it  will  be  what  God  pleases." 

It  was  not  perversity ;  it  was  not  willful  obduracy ; 
it  was  sad  acquiescence ;  it  was  a  resigning  herself  to 
more  long  waiting.  It  was  what  she  could  not  help. 

Gershom  Vorse  turned  from  her,  and  went  and  took 
his  hat.  Then  he  stood  still  a  moment;  and  then 
came  back  and  held  his  hand  out. 

"I  won't  pretend  not  to  understand,  or  believe  you. 
I  do,  — both.  I  see  you  cannot  help  it.  I  am  not 
ill  used;  it  has  been  my  fault.  Good-by.  I  shan't 
see  you  again.  I  'm  going  away  —  on  business  for 
the  ship;  and  next  week,  I  sail  —  for  a  two  years' 
voyage. " 

The  next  moment  the  door  closed  on  this  rejected 
man  and  his  tardy,  grand  generosity. 


THRUMS  AGAIN.  523 

Something  —  courage,  certainty,  mistake,  estrange 
ment,  —  I  know  not  what  —  fell  away,  suddenly,  out 
of  Say's  heart,  and  left  a  great  asking,  and  emptiness, 
and  misery  there. 

It  is  a  story  of  threads  and  thrums ;  I  told  you  so 
before. 

He  had  forgotten  all  about  the  money.  He  remem 
bered  it  afterward. 

"I  will  never  touch  a  cent  of  hers.  She  may  put 
it  where  she  likes.  It  may  wait.  Mother,  we  two 
must  make  our  wills." 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

THE    SUNNY    CORNER. 

THE  business  was  done.  Say  had  her  way,  appar 
ently;  but  they  had  all  thought,  afterward,  to  have 
theirs;  to  prevent  her  ever  feeling  the  difference. 
She  was  to  go  back  to  Hilbury;  she  was  to  live  with 
Aunt  Rebecca ;  she  belonged  there ;  it  was  her  natural 
home. 

But  they  found,  when  it  came  to  this,  that  her  way 
lay  further.  That  it  was  still  marked  definitely  out. 

"I  was  not  made  to  be  an  idle  thing  in  the  world. 
You  have  your  work,  Aunt  Becsie,  and  uses  for  your 
money.  Aunt  Joanna  has  hers.  I  am  going  to  have 
mine;  my  work,  and  my  money;  nobody's  else  earn 
ing  or  bequeathing.  You  might  marry,  or  go  away, 
—  or  die ;  and  then  —  it  would  be  neither  your  home 
nor  mine.  I  am  going  to  have  a  place  of  my  own;  I 
can't  be  a  nothing;'  when  I  die,  I  mean  to  leave  some 
sort  of  a  little  hole  in  the  world." 

Her  playfulness  was  a  cover  for  an  evident  determi 
nation;  it  overlaid  a  good  deal  else,  also;  the  aching, 
and  the  asking,  and  the  misery,  that  were  sharp  in 
her  at  times. 

She  had  already  acted  as  well  as  determined.  She 
had  seen  her  old  friend,  Mrs.  Gorham,  and  set  her 
secretly  at  work.  There  was  a  post  ready  for  her  as 
teacher  in  a  large  young  ladies'  school.  By  and  by 
she  should  have  a  school  of  her  own.  A  career  of 
womanly  independence  and  usefulness  was  before  her, 
and  her  face  was  steadfastly  set  along  its  line. 

She  had  been,  also,  to  see  Mrs.  Hopeley  and  Grace. 


THE  SUNNY  COENEE.  525 

There  was  a  third-story  room,  over  Grace's,  where  she 
could  make  just  such  another  little  nest  for  herself. 

She  had  gone  there,  knowing  there  would  be,  just 
then,  no  opposite  eyes  to  see.  Captain  Vorse  was 
away  upon  his  business  for  the  ship ;  there  was  this 
two  years'  voyage  to  come;  she  should  be  safe  there, 
as  she  had  planned,  for  that  time,  at  least;  and  the 
something  that  was  between  her  and  Gershom  Vorse, 
while  it  made  her  shy  of  risk  of  actual  encounter,  now, 
yet  gave  a  secret  contradictory  charm  to  this  actual 
neighborhood  of  absence,  —  this  nearness  to  the  home 
that  had  been  his.  Two  years  would  be  a  long  time; 
they  would  end  in  a  summer  vacation ;  she  should  see, 
meanwhile,  how  it  would  be.  Besides,  she  could  not 
give  up  her  dream,  —  and  Grace,  —  and  the  brown 
bread. 

And  besides,  again,  before  all  this  was  fully  fixed, 
and  the  two  years  began,  other  strange  things  had 
happened. 

Seventeen  years  ago,  when  our  story  opened,  there 
had  been  a  single  night  wherein  we  saw  sown  the  seeds 
of  events  —  mostly  in  quiet  lifetimes,  —  yet  that 
branched  forth  in  their  results,  grasping  the  half  those 
lives;  the  intenser  half,  and  that  wherein  they  took 
direction.  Now,  at  this  point,  in  these  few,  short 
weeks,  came  a  crisis  and  conjunction  again;  the  cul 
mination  of  much.  God  rounds  his  poems  of  inter 
mingled  human  histories  more  artistically,  often,  than 
we  stop  to  trace. 

On  the  Sunday  afternoon  following  the  day  in  which 
took  place  the  interview  and  parting  narrated  in  the 
last  chapter,  Say  came  round  in  the  rain,  when  church 
was  over,  to  Mrs.  Hopeley's.  It  was  quiet  there;  and 
Grace  was  helpful  with  her  unconscious,  tender  pa 
tience  ;  and  she  could  not  go  back,  for  all  those  hours, 
to  the  hotel  parlor.  She  did  not  even  want  Aunt  Re- 


526  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

becca;  she  slipped  away  from  her  with  a  sudden  word 
of  excuse ;  she  wanted  Grace,  and  the  bread  of  homely, 
friendly  strengthening. 

She  came  in  the  rain ;  and  she  entered  by  .the  brick 
alley  that  tunneled  the  block  half  a  dozen  doors  below 
in  the  side  street,  and  led  round  by  a  wider  one  into 
which  it  branched,  to  the  widow's  kitchen  door. 

"My  feet  are  damp;  and  I  came  round  here,  to  dry 
them  at  your  fire.  Is  Grace  at  home  ?  " 

"She's  been  home  and  upstairs;  but  she's  gone 
out  again.  Sunday  's  her  missionary  day,  you  know; 
she  's  gone  down  to  Craig's  Alley,  to  see  Terny  Shane. 
She  won't  be  long;  sit  right  up,  and  put  your  feet  at 
the  oven  door, "  and  Widow  Hopeley  placed  a  white- 
scoured  cricket  against  the  faultless  black  of  her  tidy 
little  stove. 

"How  nice  you  are  here!  It  does  look  so  like  Sun 
day  rest !  " 

"It  is  pretty  comfortable,"  said  the  widow,  with  a 
distinct  and  rather  dubious  sigh,  that  prolonged  and 
repeated  itself,  as  her  eyes  ran  complacently  round  the 
shining  order  of  the  little  room. 

"You  sigh  as  if  it  were  almost  something  doleful," 
said  Say. 

"Yes,  —  well,  —  I  'm  apt  to  be  reminded  sometimes 
of  the  lonesomeness ;  sitting  here  seven  years  of  Sun 
days  without  Luke ;  and  —  furthermore  —  I  suppose 
—  partly  —  of  the  Sunday  clutter  he  used  to  get  up. 
It  's  hard  to  tell,  after  all,  what  our  sighs  are  made 
of,  always;  or  our  tears,  or  our  prayers,  for  that 
matter. 

"There  never  was  his  likeness  for  a  muss;  espe 
cially  of  a  Sunday,  when  there  was  such  a  good  chance 
to  begin  one.  He  was  a  stiddy  man,  Luke  was,  and 
went  to  church  pretty  regular ;  and  always  of  a  morn 
ing.  But,  between  times,  and  of  afternoons,  sich 


THE  SUNNY  COENER.  527 

works  of  necessity  as  he  'd  get  up !  Just  you  look 
there,  behind  the  door.  There  's  one  string  of  'em." 
Say  glanced,  somewhat  puzzled  as  to  what  she  was 
to  behold ;  and  saw  a  long  record  of  something,  written 
up  in  blue  chalk,  upon  the  yellow-washed  wall.  From 
as  high  as  a  common  arm  could  reach,  down  to  the 
wainscot. 

1st  Sunday  after  Trinity.      Bottles. 
2d       do.       do.       do.  Cats. 

3d        do.       do.       do.  Clock. 

And  so  on,  twenty-seven  lines  of  it. 

"Eight  years  ago  last  Trinity  I  began,  and  marked 
it  up,  for  him  to  see.  First  time,  it  was  bottles. 
Washing  'em  out  to  sell;  lots  of  'em;,  all  we  'd  gath 
ered,  of  all  sorts, — and  you'd  have  thought  we'd 
made  it  a  business, — since  we'd  lived  here.  Next 
time  it  was  catching  cats.  I  could  n't  so  much  blame 
him  for  that.  They  did  yowl  round  the  alleys,  tre- 
mengious,  especially  Sundays.  So  he  contrived  a  trap; 
and  he  was  all  that  day,  and  half  the  night,  a-watch- 
ing  of  it,  and  a-whippin'  'em.  Then  it  was  the  old 
wooden  clock,  that  he  took  all  the  insides  out  of.  I 
knew  he  'd  never  get  'em  back  again,  conformable;  but 
he  said  he  was  going  to  make  it  keep  time.  I  told 
him  he  'd  better  keep  Sunday,  and  think  about  eternity; 
but,  howsoever,  it  was  the  end  of  time,  as  far  as  the 
clock  was  concerned ;  for  it  never  moved  hand  or  — 
pendleum,  of  its  own  accord  again.  And,  so  it  went 
on.  There  was  twenty-seven  Sundays  after  Trinity 
that  year;  and  there  they  all  are;  and  I've  never 
washed  'em  out;  old  sinner  as  I  am,  to  keep  my  poor 
man's  shortcomings,  that  the  Lord  has  washed  out  long 
ago,  chalked  up  against  him!  But,  howbeit,  it's 
somehow  a  thing  to  remember  him  by,  as  nothing  else 
would  be,  after  all !  And,  as  you  say,  the  kitchen  do 
look  tidy !  " 


528  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

And  Widow  Hopeley  ended  with  another  indeter 
minate  sigh,  in  which  relief  and  tender  recollection 
strove,  and  relief  had,  finally,  rather  the  better  of  it. 

It  was  not  precisely  what  she  had  come  looking  for ; 
but  it  turned,  as  straws  do  for  us,  the  current  of  Say's 
thought.  We  do  not  always  get  what  we  reach  out 
for ;  but  something  falls  to  us  that  works  for  our  want 
as  well.  A  whole,  quiet  story  of  homely,  humble  love, 
and  petty  trial,  and  great  loss,  was  in  Widow  Hope- 
ley's  whimsical  recital. 

One  shadow  —  of  her  own  —  did  not  quite  overcast 
the  whole  world  as  it  had  done.  The  world  that  was 
full  of  life,  and  endeavor,  and  crosses,  and  simple  joys, 

—  with  God  over  all,  and  in  all. 

The  smile  that  had  come  with  the  sense  of  drollness 
and  oddity  stayed  with  a  gleam  of  better  things. 
Widow  Hopeley  was  a  shrewd  woman,  and  perhaps  she 
meant  it,  in  a  secondary  wray.  Say  was  "brightened 
up  "  a  little,  by  a  touch  that  never  reached  the  real 
dull  spot  upon  her  heart  at  all.  This  is  the  way,  and 
these  are  the  tools,  with  which  life  handles  us. 

She  went  up  to  Grace's  room  with  a  feeling  of  a 
cheer,  a  pleasantness,  that  were  somewhere.  The 
fine  inner  consciousness,  that,  when  we  read  it,  be 
comes  a  second  sight,  was  stirred  as  sensitive  nerves 
are  stirred,  when  over  the  harsh  breath  of  the  east 
comes  the  first,  faint  sweep  of  a  wind  from  the  south, 

—  from  a  summer  somewhere ;   and  coming. 

A  gift  lay  waiting  for  her.  The  gift  of  a  glad  and 
beautiful  instrumentality. 

She  was  coming  straight  to  where  it  lay,  and  she 
knew  it  not ;  but  the  presentiment  of  its  delight  was 
with  her.  She  thought,  if  she  thought  at  all,  that 
it  was  all  her  bit  of  talk  with  Mistress  Hopeley,  and 
the  atmosphere  of  her  brightness  and  tidiness,  and  the 
daintier  brightness  she  should  find  with  Grace.  The 


THE  SUNNY  CORNER.  529 

angels  that  led  her,  and  knew  what  they  had  put  for 
her  to  stumble  on,  knew  better. 

She  had  had  a  hard  task  laid  on  her ;  a  thing  to 
search  for,  that  was  pain  and  shame  to  find ;  she  had 
accepted  it  and  wrought  it  out,  of  steadfast  intent  and 
purpose;  as  if  in  a  precise  amends  for  this,  a  thing 
she  looked  not  for,  which  was  a  joy,  and  a  clearing 
off  of  shame,  was  waiting  to  be  given  her,  to-day. 

Up  in  Grace's  chamber,  the  afternoon  sun  that  had 
dropped  below  the  fringe  of  summer  rain-clouds,  and 
burnished  for  himself  a  golden  gallery  in  the  west, 
poured  through  aslant ;  and  the  plants  were  green  in 
the  windows;  and  the  Sunday  rest  was  upon  all, 
sweeter,  even,  than  in  Mistress  Hopeley's  kitchen 
that  told  of  toil  completed.  There  was  no  breath  of 
toil  left  here.  The  light  work  of  the  week  was  laid 
away.  On  the  little  table  in  the  dais- window  lay  a 
book  with  open  leaves,  as  Grace  had  left  it  when  the 
church-bells  rang.  Beside  it,  a  light  basket  held  some 
golden  bananas.  There  was  a  plate  of  Indian  china 
also,  and  a  fruit-knife. 

It  was  plain  Grace  Lowder's  opposite  neighbor  was 
at  home.  That  she  looked  for  Say,  also,  for  whom 
the  little  refection  had  been  set  out. 

Grace  herself  had  not  yet  come.  But  her  fan  and 
her  prayer-book  lay  upon  her  bed ;  and  a  thin  shawl, 
that  she  had  changed  for  some  other  garment,  was 
thrown  there  also. 

Say  walked  to  the  dais-window,  and  glanced  out 
between  the  green.  Nothing  told  her  even  yet,  but 
this  creeping  sense  of  joy  and  pleasantness,  the  thing 
she  was  to  have  to  do  to-night. 

Over  the  way  a  figure  sat  behind  the  out  swung 
blinds.  Another  friend  watching  also  as  she  did  when 
Grace  should  come.  Gershom's  friend,  too,  in  Ger- 
shom's  sometimes  home.  She  looked  furtively,  and 


530  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

her  heart  warmed  to  the  noble  sailor,  of  denied,  sad 
life,  who  was  also  Ger  shorn 's  friend.  And  nothing 
whispered  even  yet  of  what  was  so  near,  — -waiting 
her  chance  turn  and  movement. 

Is  anything  chance  ?  Is  it  not  all  preventing  and 
providing,  —  a  gift  and  a  showing,  direct  ? 

Edward  Blackmere  took  his  pipe  from  his  lips,  and 
turned  full  round,  leaning  his  elbow  square  upon  the 
sill,  with  his  face  forth  upon  the  street.  Say  drew 
back.  She  turned  toward  the  bed.  She  took  up, 
mechanically,  the  little  worn  old  prayer-book,  that, 
by  some  chance  again,  she  had  never  handled  before. 
Grace  had  another;  she  did  not  always  carry  this  to 
church;  she  had  never  brought  it  to  the  Sunday- 
school.  It  lay  commonly  with  a  Bible  and  a  hymn- 
book,  on  a  little  bracket-shelf  of  Grace's  own  contri 
vance,  over  her  bed. 

The  book  opened,  of  itself,  in  the  middle,  where 
the  Order  of  Holy  Matrimony  was  set  forth ;  where, 
also,  at  the  beginning  of  the  service,  lay  folded  over, 
and  fastened  to  the  leaf,  a  small,  written  paper. 

Marriage  lines.  She  saw  the  names  that  she  had 
never  seen  before.  "Hugh  Lowder  and  Grace  Black- 
mere."  A  date  of  more  than  thirty  years  ago,  and 
the  name  of  a  little  English  seaport  town. 

She  turned  the  book  to  the  fly-leaf,  with  a  strange 
thrill  of  expectation. 

There  was  the  name  repeated,  —  "Grace  Black- 
mere,  "  —  and  a  date  still  older. 

But  up  and  down  the  cover,  in  a  stiff,  boy's  learn 
ing  hand,  was  another  name.  "Edward."  "Ed 
ward."  Twice  repeated.  And  then,  in  full,  "Ed 
ward  Blackmere." 

Again  she  had  brought  to  light  a  secret,  hidden 
thing.  Faithful  in  that  which  was  her  own,  this 
which  was  another's  came  committed  to  her;  to  her 


THE  SUNNY  CORNER.  531 

who  held  in  her  knowledge  now  the  two  ends  of  this 
broken  thread. 

It  was  clear  and  sure  to  her.  She  knew  there  had 
been  some  strange,  sad  story  about  this  man's  sister. 
That  he  had  believed  a  sore,  ill  thing  of  her.  That 
he  had  lost  her  for  long  years.  That  Grace  Low- 
der's  mother  had  been  an  Englishwoman,  as  was  also 
Widow  Hopeley.  And  now,  — well,  it  was  God's 
time  that  had  come,  as  had  come  also  in  that  other 
finding.  And  this,  too,  was  given  her  to  do. 

After  that  moment's  thrill  and  wonder,  she  took 
the  book  in  her  hand  and  went  straight  downstairs, 
out  at  the  door  where  she  saw  Grace,  ten  steps  off, 
coming.  She  did  not  stop  to  speak,  or  to  explain. 
She  let  her  act  prepare  her  friend,  and  explain  itself 
as  it  might.  She  went  right  over  the  street,  and  up 
at  that  opposite  door,  full  under  Blackmere's  sight 
and  Grace's. 

Grace  Lowder  looked  after  her,  amazed.  Then  a 
sudden  fore-feeling  of  something  coming  swept  over 
her  also,  and  took  her  whole  heart  in  a  vague  storm. 
She  went  in,  and  upstairs ;  trembling  as  she  went ; 
and  stopped  short  when  she  reached  the  middle  of  her 
own  room,  and  leaned  there  on  her  crutch,  and  waited. 
Say  rang  old  Grossman's  bell.  Blackmere  was  on 
the  stairs,  already,  and  came  and  opened  to  her.  She 
held  her  hand  out  to  him,  —  the  hand  that  had  come 
"with  a  gift  in  it,"  to  his  own  feeling,  years  ago,  — 
and  her  look,  lifted  to  his  face,  shone  brighter,  ten 
derer,  than  she  knew.  His  look  upon  her  was  what 
she  had  seen  in  that  old,  first  meeting.  Gentle  and 
kindly,  —  a  rock  warmed  arid  lighted  in  the  sunshine. 
She  knew,  now,  what  more  she  had  seen  in  it  then. 
What  its  blind  reminder  had  been. 

"I  must  come  in.      I  have  come  to  tell  you  some 
thing," 


532  THE  GAY  WORTHY  S. 

He  was  surprised,  with  such  a  surprise  as  the  old 
patriarch  felt  when  the  angel  came  to  his  tent. 

She  could  not  say  it  here,  in  such  a  hurry.  She  let 
him  lead  her  up  into  that  room  above.  A  strange 
place  for  her  to  be  in,  —  a  strange  thing  for  her  to  do. 
But  she  never  thought  of  the  strangeness. 

She  stood  there  among  Gershom's  furnishings;  in 
that  chamber  that  was  more  like  the  cabin  of  a  ship, 
with  its  lamp  swinging  from  the  ceiling,  and  its  berth- 
like  bed  set  in  against  the  wall.  She  stood  beside  the 
table  where  his  maps  and  papers  lay.  Blackmere  drew 
for  her  the  armchair  that  she  knew  was  his ;  but  she 
did  not  seat  herself  or  pause. 

"It  is  strange  that  it  should  have  come  to  me. 
But  I  am  glad  and  thankful  that  it  was  given  to  me. 
I  have  found  this." 

She  reached  out  to  him  the  little  book. 

How  things  outlast  our  lives ! 

That  little  worn  old  book!  His  childhood  came 
back  with  it.  The  smell  of  the  old  Devonshire  woods, 
—  the  farmhouse  home  in  the  river-valley;  the  wild 
breath  and  voice  of  the  sea,  that  came  up  and  wooed 
him,  at  last,  — when  bitterness  and  anger  drove  him, 
also,  —  away.  The  love  of  his  dead  mother ;  the 
"real  mother,"  who  had  "gone  to  heaven  as  the  real 
ones  do ;  "  the  sister  — 

For  a  moment  the  man's  body  was  there,  standing 
before  Say ;  his  soul  was  away  off,  over  the  ocean,  — 
away  back  into  long-gone  years. 

He  knew  it  before  he  opened  it.  The  thought  and 
the  breath  of  the  old  time  came  with  it ;  he  laid  back 
the  cover  slowly,  as  one  might  fold  back  the  door  of  a 
tomb. 

His  eye  fell  on  the  written  names.  He  sat  down 
on  a  chair  that  was  beside  him  there,  never  thinking 
of  Say,  standing,  looking  on ;  he  laid  the  book  upon 


THE  SUNNY  CORNEB.  533 

the  table  and  his  head  drooped  over  it ;  tears,  wrung 
up  through  the  strong  life  of  the  man,  along  this  well- 
shaft  that  had  sounded  down,  suddenly,  to  the  sweet 
springs  of  his  boyhood,  ran  from  his  eyes  upon  it. 

Say  turned  away.     A  strong  man's  tears  are  sacred. 

Then  the  memory  of  the  shame,  and  the  anger,  and 
the  bitterness  came  back.  He  came  back,  through  all 
the  years  again,  to  this  present  moment  of  his  life. 

"  Where  did  you  get  it  ?  What  good  does  it  do  me, 
now?" 

"  I  saw  this  first, "  said  Say  gently,  coming  back, 
and  laying  her  hand  on  the  book  beside  his,  and  turn 
ing,  as  his  hand  yielded,  to  that  folded  paper  in  the 
middle,  that  opened,  as  the  leaves  parted,  and  showed 
its  old  brown  writing. 

"I  found  it  there.  In  Grace  Lowder's  room.  She 
is  my  friend." 

Then  she  moved  away  again,  a  little,  while  he 
looked  at  it. 

"Do  you  know  what  this  means  that  you  have 
brought  me  ?  "  He  spoke,  after  a  hushed  pause. 

"I  think  I  do." 

"I  think  you  can't.  It  means  the  clearing  up  of  a 
cloud,  that  came  with  a  whirlwind  in  it,  and  drove  me 
out  upon  the  world,  to  be  what  I  have  been  since.  It 
means  that  my  sister  Grace  —  whom  I  did  love, 
though  I  cursed  her  —  was  at  least  an  honest  woman, 
as  women's  honesty  is  talked  of  in  the  world.  It 
means  that  God  has  given  me  something  of  my  own  to 
care  for,  at  last.  God?  It  means  that  He,  whom 
I  said  was  nowhere  in  the  earth,  has  been  in  all  my 
life,  and  that  I  know  it  now !  " 

No  way  of  writing  it  can  show  with  what  a  burst  of 
untrained,  urgent  eloquence,  that  had  in  it  a  great  as 
tonishment  of  joy,  —  a  passion  of  regret,  —  a  rush  of 
grateful  tenderness,  and  a  grand  confession  of  heart- 


534  THE  GAYWOBTHYS. 

faith,  —  Edward  Blackmere  spoke  these  words,  or 
something  like  them,  to  Sarah  Gair. 

Then,  suddenly,  a  fresh  thought  smote  him. 

"I  never  told  her  my  name,  because  there  was  a 
shame  upon  it.  It  is  her  shame,  now;  and  I  must 
tell  her!  I  believed  the  worst  —  God  forgive  me  — 
of  her  mother.  What  if  she  should  believe  the  worst 
of  me  ?  " 

"You  know  she  will  not,  Mr.  Blackmere.  The 
worst  is  never  true  of  anybody!  " 

She  spoke  as  one  who  knew.  She  who  came  always 
with  a  gift  in  her  hand  for  him  held  it  out,  —  this 
grand,  beautiful,  human  faith,  —  and  he  grasped  it. 

The  human  faith  came,  too,  —  the  crowning  of  the 
heavenly.  He  was  ready,  —  the  hard,  doubting  man, 
—  at  last,  to  believe,  and  to  be  believed  in. 

"Where  is  my  little  girl?" 

Oh,  how  tenderly  the  rough  man  said  it!  How, 
with  a  voice  of  tears,  he  claimed  and  took  this  gift  of 
God! 

Say  led  him  over,  then,  and  sent  him  in. 

There  were  three  days  before  the  new  ship  sailed. 
In  those  three  days,  what  a  carrying  over  of  lovely 
things,  across  the  way,  into  Grace  Lowder's  little 
room!  Things  that  nobody,  not  even  Gershom  Yorse, 
had  known  of.  Things  that,  for  years,  had  been  gath 
ering  in  that  little  back  upper  chamber,  in  locked  sea- 
chests,  in  old  Grossman's  house.  Waiting  for  his  lit 
tle  girl,  some  time.  When  he  should  dare  to  give  them 
to  her,  — if  ever  he  should.  All  sorts  of  women's 
beautiful  appointments,  bought  out  of  his  hard  earnings 
in  all  sorts  of  strange,  far  places  where  he  had  been, 
since  he  had  first  found  that  there  was  this  one  little 
woman  in  the  world  that  he  would  like  to  have  a  right 
to  think  of  and  make  glad !  Now  and  then,  something 


THE  SUNNY  CORNER.  535 

had  gone  to  her ;  but  he  had  kept  buying,  and  bringing 
home,  and  hiding  away,  with  a  strange  instinct,  things 
that  he  never  really  thought  to  put  into  her  hands  at 
all.  A  little  delusion  of  what  might  be  had  embodied 
itself  so,  and  so  had  seemed  half  real.  The  little  love 
that  had  crept  into  his  hard  life  had  been  such  an  in 
tensity  ! 

On  Thursday  morning  the  ship  sailed  away. 

In  two  years  he  would  come  back  again.  Then  they 
would  have  their  little  home  together.  Meantime, 
white,  folded  messengers  would  go  out  after  him  across 
the  water,  and  find  him  in  far  ports.  And  letters, 
spicy  from  hot  climes,  ship-flavored  from  long  sailing, 
should  come  back  to  her.  He  had  never  had  anybody 
to  write  to,  or  get  letters  from,  before. 

All  had  resolved  itself  in  those  three  days.  Mrs. 
Hopeley  (I  have  not  been  able  to  pause  to  tell  you 
of  her  ecstasy  at  this  solution  of  what  "had  been, 
verily,  her  main  conunderment  "  so  long ;  at  the  oppo 
site  gentleman  "coming  out,  after  all,  as  handsome  as 
could  anyways  be  expected, "  with  a  good  plain  Eng 
lish  name  of  his  own  whereby  she  was  to  have  hence 
forth  "  the  good  of  him, "  as  if  he  had  been  a  tin  dip 
per  !),, —  Mrs.  Hopeley  was  to  go  then  to  one  of  those 
likely  sons  of  hers,  that  had  been,  long  ago,  so  "for- 
rard  in  their  means,"  and  had  gone  "forrard "  ever 
since ;  and  Edward  Blackmere  was  to  hire  her  house 
and  come  over  to  the  sunny  corner;  to  the  corner  of 
his  life  where  the  tardy  sun  had  at  last  crept  round. 

The  captain  ?  There  was  always  to  be  a  place  there 
for  the  captain  when  he  chose  to  come. 

It  was  Widow  Hopeley 's  hour  of  triumph.  Old 
Grossman's  nose  was  decidedly  out  of  joint. 

Say  caused  it  to  be  kept  very  quiet  that,  for  these 
two  years,  first,  it  was  to  be  her  home.  They  would 
end,  as  she  had  all  along  said  to  herself,  in  the  summer 


536  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

vacation.  There  was  Mrs.  Gorham,  who  had  asked 
that  she  should  come  to  her  whenever  she  could  and 
liked ;  there  was  Hilbury,  where  she  should  always  go 
for  those  joy-days  of  the  year.  She  should  be  in  no 
one's  way. 

But  her  path  tangled  itself  curiously  with  his.  She 
felt,  somehow,  that  they  could  never  part,  and  go  quite 
separate  ways.  This  goes  far  to  satisfy  a  woman;  and 
Say  was  not  so  sorely  sorry  as  she  had  been. 

She  thought,  even  yet,  that  the  old,  utter  love  was 
changed ;  that  she  could  not  be  his  wife ;  yet  she  looked, 
somehow,  with  a  vague  expectation  for  these  two  years 
to  end. 

Whatever  they  were  to  be,  each  to  the  other,  in  their 
lives,  they  should  be ;  she  believed  in  this,  and  waited. 

Grace  was  content  and  happy ;  she  had  two  years  to 
think  it  over  in,  to  get  used  to  it,  and  to  be  ready. 
She  could  not  bear  it  all  at  once,  nor  all  the  time ! 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

"ELECTED!  " 

Do  the  two  years  dishearten  you  ?  Are  they  weari 
some  beforehand  ?  Have  you  made  up  your  mind  to 
skip  them  ?  I  may  have  to  skip  them  in  great  part, 
too.  Yet,  let  me  tell  you  that  it  is  the  misfortune  of 
readers  that  they  may  skip ;  of  books  that  they  must ; 
that  we  will  not  accept  an  uneventful  interval ;  that  no 
life  can  be  got,  wholly,  within  two  covers.  Yet  He 
who  reads  patiently  the  record  that  He  lets  us  write 
does  not  grow  weary  nor  skip ;  not  even  our  times  of 
sin.  And  ourselves, — out  of  our  books, — we  have 
to  wait.  We  show  plainly  enough  what  we  should  do 
were  the  whole  volume  of  life  in  our  hands  at  once. 
But  the  dull  places  and  the  long  places,  the  places 
where  things  won't  happen,  — ah,  these  are  the  very 
ones  God  means  us  most  carefully  to  read ! 

There  was  much  in  these  two  years  that  might  not 
be  quite  wearisome  were  we  to  settle  down  to  it.  Sarah 
Gair  herself,  having  to  settle  down  to  it,  found  this. 
There  were  busy,  happy  days  of  contact  with  young, 
fresh  life  that  she  could  help ;  there  were  trial  days  to 
be  fought  bravely  through ;  the  old  word  "  elected  " 
was  in  her  heart  when  things  were  hardest ;  there  were 
stanch  friends  —  friends  of  herself,  not  of  her  for 
tunes —  who  made  bright  hours  for  her  of  absolute 
rest;  there  were  summer  days  at  Hilbury  that  gave 
her  the  elixir  of  her  youth,  and  made  her  strong. 

Aunt  Prue  was  kind ;  there  was  no  place  for  mean, 
unreasonable  resentment  in  her  honest  soul,  that  recog 
nized  truth  always.  —  that  would  have  nothing  else,  in 


538  THE  GAY  WORTHY  S. 

itself  or  in  another.  She  had  come  to  respect  Say; 
and  she  showed  it.  There  was  more  in  her  simple 
"I'm  glad  to  see  you,  child,"  than  in  other  people's 
most  voluble  welcomes.  And  more  than  all,  which 
proved  how  wholly  she  took  her  into  her  heart  at  last, 
she  read  to  her  bits  of  Gershom's  letters,  and  told  her 
all  the  news  of  him  and  of  his  ship.  Not  a  hint  of 
her  knowledge  of  what  had  been,  and  been  done  with, 
between  the  two.  Her  native  greatness  turned  itself, 
wide-armed,  toward  this  nature  that  she  had  found  to 
be  also  great. 

Say  grew  quietly,  trustfully,  hopefully  content.  Her 
love  for  Gershom  had  been  so  much  a  thing  born  with 
and  grown  up  with  her,  that  it  could  not  partake  of 
the  fear  and  the  uneasiness  that  attach  themselves  to 
love  grown  out  of  chance  meetings ;  where  to  part  once 
is  to  be  parted  from  utterly.  She  had  "grown  up  with 
him  in  her  heart, "  cousin  Wealthy  had  truly  said. 
Their  lives  centred  themselves  alike ;  she  never  dreamed 
of  his  finding  for  himself  a  new  centre ;  she  knew  too 
profoundly  that  they  not  only  could  never  "be  quite 
like  other  people  to  each  other,"  but  that  none  other 
could  fill  the  place  of  either. 

I  said  she  was  hopeful.  Hopeful  of  all  good  to 
come,  at  last,  to  Gershom ;  of  a  clear  day  that  should 
burn  away  every  old  mist  out  of  his  soul.  She  was 
content;  prevailingly  content;  yet  there  were  hours  of 
self-doubt  and  questioning  pain,  when  she  misgave 
whether  or  not  she  had  done  all  that  lay  for  her  to 
do  in  righting  the  old  wrong;  the  words  of  Gershom, 
so  dear  to  her  recollection  in  their  vindication  of  her 
truth,  —  "here  is  more  than  money  justice  to  be  done," 
—  her  heart  took  up  in  his  behalf,  also.  The  shadow 
of  distrust  and  unbelief  upon  him,  which  had  come 
so  largely  from  that  wrong  which  lay  at  her  dead 
mother's  door,  — might  it  not,  of  right,  have  been  her 


"ELECTED!"  539 

work  to  win  away?  Had  she  looked,  with  a  strong 
enough  faith,  on  her  own  part,  through  that  which 
overlay  his  real  nature,  holding  fast  to  that  image  of 
him,  which  she  knew  to  be  the  true  apprehension  of 
his  inward  self ;  the  self  that  should  triumph ;  the  glory 
in  him  that  should  come  to  be  revealed  ? 

He  was  very  generous ;  he  made  kindly  mention  of 
her  in  the  words  that  he  sent  home ;  his  calm  thoughts 
were  just  thoughts ;  she  held  him  daily  in  honor,  more 
and  more. 

She  clung  more  and  more,  in  her  heart,  and  in  lit 
tle  delicate  ways  of  showing,  to  his  mother,  — the 
stern- judging  woman,  of  whom  she  had  been  so  afraid 
as  a  child. 

When  Gershom  came,  he  would  find  her  grown 
very  close  there,  in  his  mother's  love. 

Grace  Lo.wder's  days  dropped  by,  like  the  sweet, 
quick  notes  of  a  song.  It  would  not  be  long ;  not  any 
thing  was  long,  between  two  hearts  that  felt  each 
other,  and  were  sure ;  a  matter  of  leagues  and  degrees 
is  nothing  to  the  electric  wire.  There  was  a  great, 
strong  love  for  her  in  the  world ;  the  world  was"  one 
full  joy;  though  it  all  lay  between  them,  it  was  one 
great,  throbbing  presence ;  there  was  no  such  thing  as 
separation  in  it. 

And  by  and  by  the  two  years  were  done,  and  came 
to  their  end.  Two  years,  and  five  weeks  over;  they 
had  sailed  in  early  August,  and  now  the  September 
days  were  come.  But  at  the  last  news,  all  was  well ; 
and  they  were  not  yet  overdue. 

The  time  had  not  quite  come  for  Say's  school  du 
ties  ;  but  she  had  returned  from  Hilbury,  and  was 
getting  settled  in  her  new  room.  The  sunny  corner 
house  was  ready  for  its  coming  tenant;  Mrs.  Hope- 
ley's  boxes  were  packed;  her  furniture  sent  away; 
Say's  little  nest  was  broken  up,  — built  over;  never' 


540  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

i 

theless,  she  had  had  her  share  of  pleasure  in  the  build 
ing:  Grace  was  like  a  bird,  hopping  from  perch  to 
perch  of  her  pretty  cage.  She  had  spent  the  money 
Blackmere  left  her  to  make  this  home  with;  spent  it, 
turning  it  into  wonders  of  pleasantness  and  fitness,  as 
only  a  woman  of  delicate  thought  and  heart  can  do; 
and  from  bright  kitchen  to  big  attic,  the  whole  place 
smiled. 

And  then  there  came  a  week  of  rain. 

Dreary,  cloudy  days,  at  first,  misting  and  gloom 
ing;  then  two  days  of  real  tempest. 

And  they  knew  that  the  ship  was  coming  homeward, 
—  coastward.  Grace  read  the  prayer  at  night  for 
persons  at  sea ;  it  came  to  be  in  her  heart  all  day. 

Say  came  round  in  the  twilight,  every  day,  and 
picked  up  the  little  evening  paper  on  the  doorstep, 
that  they  left  there  for  her  to  bring  in;  and  they 
looked  to  find  ships  telegraphed. 

How  shall  I  tell  you  what  they  did  find,  one  night, 
at  last  ? 

The  weather  was  clear  again;  people  said  the  line 
storm  was  over ;  early,  this  year ;  and  vessels  had  come 
in.  For  forty-eight  hours,  the  bay  had  been  white 
with  them. 

There  was  a  long  list  of  shipping  intelligence. 

There  was  a  long  column  under  the  head  "Disas 
ters." 

How  shall  I  tell  you  what  they  found  there  ?  How 
five  little  lines  of  type  quivered  at  them,  like  dusky 
lightning,  from  the  page,  and  blinded  their  eyes,  and 
smote  them  to  the  life? 

How,  that  night,  Say  stayed  on  with  Grace,  and 
their  storm  came  down  upon  them,  and  grasped  them, 
and  hurled  them  upon  the  rocks  of  pain,  while  the 
air  was  full  of  drowning  men's  voices,  and  too-late 
prayers  to  Heaven? 


"  ELECTED ! "  541 

There  was  news  of  a  large  vessel  driven  ashore  upon 
r,  ledge  down  off  the  eastern  coast,  and  gone  to  pieces. 

Dead  bodies  drifted  ashore  ten  miles  away;  and 
fragments  of  wreck  found,  with  a  portion  of  a  name :  — 

" — ajestic.  ,   Selpo — 

"No  doubt,  the  ship  Majestic,  Vorse,  master,  of 
Selport;  from  Valparaiso,  June  24.  All  on  board 
must  have  perished." 

Say  stayed  with  Grace  that  night. 

And  Grace,  out  of  her  little  prayer-book,  —  that  had 
brought  her,  in  strange,  long-waited  answer  to  all  her 
faith  and  rest  in  it,  this  one,  short  joy  of  her  life, 
that  was  wrenched  away  from  her  again,  — read  the 
petition  for  persons  at  sea,  because  she  could  not  leave 
it  off  as  helpless  words,  even  yet;  though  she  knew 
her  friend  might  be,  already,  where  there  was  no  more 
sea. 

And  then  the  two  lay,  sleepless,  by  each  other's 
side,  through  the  long,  terrible  hours;  their  hands 
clasped;  sending  up,  heart  by  heart,  still  sobs,  and 
speechless  prayers  to  Heaven. 

Say  thought  back,  —  how  the  thoughts  will  go  back 
in  moments  like  these !  —  and  remembered  the  tame 
habitual  words  that  she  had  said  for  him,  when  his 
ship  was  going  down !  She  had  not  really  been  afraid 
of  the  storm  for  him ;  who  had  come  through  so  many 
storms;  who  was  in  his  own,  new,  stout,  noble  ship! 
They  had  been  little  quiet  heart-breaths,  rather ;  such 
as  go  up  from  all  loving  souls  to  Him  who  must  care 
for  all,  continually ;  else,  though  there  be  no  cloud  in 
the  sky,  we  should  all  also  perish. 

Why  did  she  say  such  summer-words,  and  so  few  of 
them?  Why  did  she  not  feel  the  threat  of  every 
wave,  and  battle,  in  spirit,  before  God,  with  each? 

Was  it  too  late,  even  now? 

"O  Thou,    to  whom  the  past  is  present,   take  the 


542  THE  GAY  WORTHY  S. 

prayer  of  agony  I  would  have  prayed,  if  I  had 
known,  and  somehow,  in  thy  mysterious  power,  send 
answer !  " 

He  had  gone  without  her  love !  Never  knowing  — 
she  did  not  know  herself,  when  she  gave  him  that  hard 
answer,  that  she  thought  true  —  what  he  was,  what 
he  had  been,  what  he  must  forever  be,  to  her !  If  she 
could  but  call  that  moment  back ! 

The  hours  were  not  hours.  They  were  the  epitome 
of  years.  They  were  nameless  periods  of  intensest 
life. 

People  expect  to  find  friends,  days  after,  in  the  first 
shock  of  sudden,  terrible  grief.  They  have  gone  by 
it,  ages'  length. 

At  first,  the  time  went  by  in  tears  and  prayers; 
then,  at  the  daybreak,  came  a  deep,  strange  joy. 

"If  it  were  so!     Even  if  it  were!  " 

The  barrier  was  down  between  them,  and  forever. 

The  something,  that  would  not  let  them  fully  un 
derstand. 

That  inner,  real  nature  of  his,  —  it  had  gone  up. 
The  hardness,  and  the  mistake,  and  the  doubting,  — 
they  were  all  beneath  the  sea. 

Into  that  unseen  world,  where  souls  are,  —  in  the 
body,  or  out  of  the  body,  —  she  felt  forth,  with  hands 
of  faith;  she  felt  him  near.  He  understood  her  now. 
He  had  found  the  Everlasting  Truth.  In  his  purified, 
glorified  manhood,  he  stood  nearer  to  God,  now,  than 
she!  v 

Life  had  held  them  sundered !  Death  had  brought 
them  soul  to  soul. 

This  was  the  rapture  of  the  still,  sure  dawn,  after 
the  darkness ;  the  ecstasy  to  which  grief  climbed,  by 
those  steps  that  were  periods  of  pain. 

But  grief  must  fall  back  into  itself ;  and  climb  again  ; 
and  again. 


"ELECTED!"  543 

They  rose  up  together,  and  shut  out  the  daylight ; 
the  bright,  riotous  September  sun,  that  came  back,  as 
if  his  shrouding  had  cost  them  nothing ! 

The  life  of  the  great  city  woke ;  wheels  crashed  by ; 
merchandise  was  carried  up  and  down;  other  ships 
were  at  the  wharves,  unlading;  other  sailors  had  come 
home ;  it  was  as  if  there  had  been  no  storm,  and  no 
brave  vessel  and  no  loving  hearts  had  been  borne  under 
and  gone  down. 

In  the  broadening,  busy  day,  they  could  hardly  feel 
it  true. 

Night  came  again,  and  night  thoughts,  and  certain 
ties  of  suffering.  They  cried,  and  prayed;  and  slept, 
at  length,  from  utter  weariness. 

In  the  second  morning  Say  gave  her  friend  long 
kisses  and  went  home. 

Aunt  Prue  came  down  from  the  country  in  the  after 
noon.  Say  knew  that  it  would  be  so.  She  had  the 
paper  always,  only  twelve  hours  late,  up  there  in  her 
hillside  home;  and  these  tidings  would  bring  her; 
down,  at  least  nearer  to  this  terrible  sea,  and  the  news 
of  it. 

The  two  women  met  there  again,  in  the  crowded 
station.  They  grasped  each  other's  hands  and  never 
said  a  word. 

Until  Say  led  Aunt  Prue  into  her  own  quiet  room, 
and  turned  with  arms  held  out. 

"Aunt  Prue!  you  do  believe  me  now,  and  I  must 
comfort  you." 

And  Gershom's  mother  called  her  "child,"  and  held 

her  close. 

» 

The  last  gasps  of  a  southeasterly  storm  down  on  the 
Atlantic. 

A  great  vessel  out  of  her  course,  dismasted,  leaking, 
drifting,  broadside  on,  to  a  lee  shore. 


544  THE  GAYWOBTHYS. 

Twelve  men,  clinging  to  the  wreck;  eight  washed 
away  into  the  hungry  sea,  with  sails,  and  ropes,  and 
spars,  and  boats,  that  had  gone,  sweep  after  sweep, 
crash  after  crash. 

In  the  deck  cabin  lay  the  master,  sorely  hurt ;  the 
bones  of  his  foot  and  ankle  broken  by  a  falling  timber, 
as  he  helped  to  cut  away  the  mainmast  with  his  own 
hands. 

Beside  him,  Blackmere,  his  first  officer  and  friend; 
nothing  to  do  now  but  to  stand  by  loyally,  to  the  last 
plank. 

They  heard  the  sound  of  the  great  seas  as  they  shat 
tered  into  breakers  over  the  nearing  rocks. 

A  heaving,  as  if  the  soul  were  going  out  of  her, 
which,  indeed,  it  was,  —  a  grinding,  —  a  shock,  that 
flung  them  helpless  across  her  deck  and  floors,  —  and 
the  vessel  that  had  had  such  glorious  life  in  her  lay,  a 
dead  thing,  cast  up,  at  half  tide,  on  a  cruel,  outlying 
ledge. 

Fast,  by  her  stern,  between  two  griping  crags ;  but 
she  parted,  forward,  and  the  cargo  came  out  of  her. 
Three  more  men  upon  the  forecastle  went  down  then. 

Nine  souls  were  left  upon  the  fragment  of  her;  and 
the  tide  was  going  out. 

Night,  and  darkness,  and  shivering  timbers,  that 
might  go  with  any  shock.  But  the  morning  was  com 
ing,  and  the  storm,  that  had  done  its  worst,  was  dying 
down ;  the  wind  was  changing,  and  the  tide  was  going 
out. 

Broad  day  at  last,  and  the  tide  upon  the  turn. 

Before  them  the  tumultuous  ocean,  seething  after  its 
long  scourging,  and  turning  its  face  this  way,  with 
death  in  it.  Behind  the  ledge,  a  calmer  water;  and 
more  than  half  a  mile  away,  showing  between  wave- 
tops,  as  they  lifted  and  lowered,  a  line  of  sandy,  island 
beach. 


"ELECTED!"  545 

Men  might  live  to  get  there.  The  ship  could  never 
last  that  tide  out.  The  sea  would  sweep  clean  over 
the  whole  reef. 

Two  men,  strong,  hardy  swimmers,  lashed  them 
selves  to  planks,  and  flung  themselves  off,  to  be  borne 
back  by  the  fearful  undertow,  and  dashed  lifeless 
among  hidden  crags. 

High  on  the  topmost  point  the  five  men  left  got  up 
a  staff  and  a  white  signal.  A  boat  might,  by  some 
wonderful  chance,  come  out  to  them.  All  up  and 
down  among  those  islands  into  whose  broad  fringe  that 
eastern  coast  was  torn,  were  homes  of  small  sheep- 
farmers  and  hardy  fishermen. 

Long  before  noon  the  golden  sun  shone  clear  in  the 
blue  heaven.  And  out  there,  over  the  dark  points  of 
rock,  against  the  blue,  two  brave  'longshoremen  saw 
the  fluttering  gleam  of  white.  A  vessel  gone  aground 
in  the  night ;  and  souls  waiting  there  to  perish.  For 
the  tide  was  three  hours  in. 

Help  coming.  A  boat  with  men,  and  ropes,  and 
poles,  daring  the  waters,  out  of  which  the  wrath  had 
but  half  subsided.  Climbing,  and  pitching,  —  toiling 
against  the  great  incoming  tide.  But  the  wind  had 
come  out  fair  from  off  the  shore,  and  they  had  set  up 
a  pole,  and  spread  a  bit  of  sail. 

Pollock's  Ledge  is  a  great  sea-mountain,  sloping  up 
its  gradual  mass  from  the  ocean-front,  and  running 
abruptly  down  into  the  water  on  the  shore-side ;  at  one 
point,  showing  a  bare  perpendicular  face  at  ebb.  Near 
up  here,  alongside  the  rock,  buried  two  thirds,  now, 
under  the  rising  tide,  knowing  their  one  safe  approach, 
the  fishermen  came ;  holding  themselves  off,  at  cautious 
distance,  against  the  strong  force  of  recoiling  waves, 
with  their  stout  boat-poles  planted  against  the  ledge. 

Three  men  stood  by  their  frail  signal-staff.  Down 
from  the  wreck,  along  the  slippery  crest,  dashed,  even 


546  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

now,  with  the  advance  of  the  coming  flood,  —  where, 
through  clefts,  the  water  rolled  already,  clutching  with 
its  wavering,  deadly  embrace,  the  huge,  worn'  body  of 
rock  that  twice  daily  it  drew  down  into  its  sea-grave ; 
where  the  curling  breakers  bursting,  nearer,  every  one, 
along  the  crags,  might  grasp  and  carry  them  away  in 
the  very  face  of  hope,  —  struggled  two  more,  bring 
ing  a  berth  mattress  with  them.  For  the  captain, 
insensible  with  the  long  pain  of  his  broken  bones,  and 
the  harder  pain  of  his  proud,  brave  sailor  heart.  The 
boatmen  flung  their  ropes,  and  the  quick  sailors  caught 
them,  and  the  bed  was  so  swung  over. 

Blackmere,  giant  of  love  and  muscle,  came,  toil 
somely  and  perilously,  last  of  all;  stooping,  clinging; 
hands  and  feet  in  the  creeping  water ;  salt  spray  in  his 
face ;  bracing  himself  with  every  forward  movement, 
against  a  possible,  threatening  wave-shock ;  bearing  his 
friend,  unconscious,  swathed  in  blankets,  on  his  true, 
chivalrous  shoulders. 

They  fastened  sling  ropes  about  the  captain's  body; 
they  watched  their  time  when  the  boat,  lifted  on 
the  surge,  swayed  nearest;  they  passed  him  safely. 
Blackmere's  work  was  done,  — almost. 

Then  three  seamen  swung  themselves  after.  Only 
three. 

"We  can't  take  more!  You  '11  swamp  her!  We  '11 
come  back!  " 

And  the  boatmen  flung  off  the  ropes,  drew  in  their 
poles,  set  their  oars  in  the  rowlocks,  and  turned  their 
faces  toward  the  shore. 

But  the  sailors  knew  that  there  would  be  no  time. 
The  sea  was  upon  them.  The  tide  was  more  than  four 
hours  in. 

They  would  have  plunged  down  into  the  water,  after 
the  boat,  those  two  left  standing  there  with  Blackmere. 

"Hold  back!  "  cried  the  mate,  grasping  them  each 


"ELECTED!"  547 

by  an  arm.  "Will  you  lose  eight  lives  instead  of 
two?  God  's  here  as  well  as  there  !  " 

There  was  an  angry,  desperate  blow ;  the  brave  man 
held  on;  another,  and  he  fell  back  against  the  rock. 
There  was  a  plunge  into  the  sea,  but  the  boat,  lifted 
and  swung  upon  the  tide,  had  passed  over,  in  that  mo 
ment,  from  their  reach;  English  Ned  had  saved  his 
friend ;  the  boy  who  had  once  saved  him. 

He  was  hurt  by  that  ruffianly  blow,  and  fall ;  there 
was  a  shoulder  crippled.  He  could  not  swim  for  it 
now,  were  it  not  even  a  hopeless  thing  to  try. 

If  he  must  go,  he  would  go  with  the  ship;  with 
what  was  left  of  her.  He  crept  down  and  up  again, 
through  the  clefts  of  crag  and  the  dashing  water,  as  he 
had  come.  He  went  back,  —  the  last  man,  alone,  — 
to  face  his  death.  He  climbed  upon  the  trembling 
timbers,  lying  even  with  the  topmost  rocks,  over  which 
the  sea,  returned  to  find  its  prey,  began  to  break  with 
every  burst  that  came  more  eager  than  the  rest. 

He  held  fast  while  he  could  hold. 

He  had  one  thought,  with  a  long  pang  in  it. 

"My  little  girl!" 

And  then  came  peace. 

Till  in  the  seeming  pitiless  black  wall  of  water  that 
rose  up  at  last  with  gathered,  towering  bulk  above  and 
toward  him,  he  saw,  as  in  the  last  extreme  souls  only 
see,  a  Love  and  Pity  bending  in  the  Might  that  smote. 
A  still,  small  voice,  within  the  roar,  spoke  a  trium 
phant  word  to  him,  —  "Elected!  " 

And  on  the  seaward  sweep  of  that  backward-thun 
dering  wave,  a  great,  brave,  believing  soul  went  forth 
to  God. 

A  strong  thread,  holding  fast  to  many  hearts,  was 
—  broken  ? 

Loosed  from  earth,  and  drifted  out  to  the  Unseen. 

Upon  such  lines  hearts  follow,  and  find  Heaven. 


CHAPTER   XLIII. 

LAST,    BUT   NOT    FINAL. 

AUNT  PRUE  had  not  come  down  to  sit  and  grieve, 
and  wait  for  certainty  of  ill  to  come  to  her. 

"'Pollock's  Reef.'  And  the  news  came  by  tele 
graph  from  Landhaven.  I  'm  going  to  Landhaven  to 
morrow  morning,  and  from  there,  as  near  to  Pollock's 
Reef,  wherever  it  is,  as  I  can  get." 

A  longing  hesitancy  came  into  Say's  face. 

"Of  course,"  said  Aunt  Prue,  reading  it.  "You, 
too,  child.  Your  heart  's  there.  Why  should  you 
act  a  lie  ?  " 

And  Say  was  glad,  and  not  ashamed,  to  be  read 
through,  and  to  be  made  welcome  so. 

At  Landhaven  they  got  more  news.  The  blessed 
news  of  life,  at  least.  For  a  little,  only,  perhaps. 
There  was  terrible  injury  and  danger. 

They  thought  that  he  would  die.  Say  looked  for 
nothing  else.  But  if  she  could  only  take  back  that 
word  of  hers,  so  false,  as  she  felt  it  now !  If  she  could 
only  give  him  her  love  at  last,  to  go  from  life  with! 
If  she  could  but  cancel  that  sharpest  agony,  before  the 
tide  of  her  grief  surged  back  upon  her ! 

If  there  were  a  chance  given  her !  What  had  the 
two  years  done  with  that  love  of  his,  and  his  stern, 
strong  nature  ? 

Two  days  after  their  first,  meeting,  Prudence  Vorse 
and  the  "child"  were  together  in  the  little  fishing 
village  of  Wyacumsett,  ten  miles  below  the  place  of 
shipwreck;  where  the  bodies  and  the  drifting  timbers 


LAST,  BUT  NOT  FINAL.  549 

had  come  ashore,  and  where  Gershom  Vorse  lay  with 
his  shattered  limb,  and  the  sore  anguish  at  his  heart. 

-Back,  out  of  strange  confusion  and  wild  dreams. 
Back,  through  a  dreamless  void  and  horrible  pause. 
Groping  back  into  the  world  of  life  again ;  feeling,  one 
by  one,  after  the  old  fibres  of  mysterious  association 
and  relation,  whereby,  in  delicate  poise,  identity 
swung  —  somewhere !  Back,  out  of  emptiness,  the 
atoms  of  consciousness  regathered;  the  soul,  in  short, 
come  again  into  its  body. 

"Say!  "  It  was  his  first  word.  How  did  he  know 
that  she  was  there  ? 

"I've  been  —  a  naked  soul.  I've  been  out  — 
into  Nowhere.  Thank  God  —  for  Here,  again!  " 

He  had  been  under  the  effect  of  ether.  They  had 
amputated  his  left  foot. 

"  How  did  I  know  that  you  were  here  ?  "  He  asked 
the  question  himself,  now. 

"I  felt  you  as  I  came  back,  through  the  darkness. 
It  was  the  first  I  knew  that  I  was  coming.  It  seemed 
to  bring  me  back  again.  Back  to  my  place,  —  among 
created  things." 

He  spoke  dreamily;  words,  perhaps,  that  would 
have  waited,  had  the  restrictions  of  a  full  consciousness 
been  upon  him.  But  it  was  the  truth  that  came. 

"Gershom!" 

She  could  only  speak  his  name,  after  all.  She 
could  only  put  her  hand  in  his  and  hold  fast  by  him ; 
as  if  so  she  would  hold  him  to  the  world  and  to  her 
love.  The  tone  and  the  touch  said  all.  A  grasp 
and  a  look  lifted  up  at  her,  in  which  the  soul  flashed 
full  to  its  presence-chamber,  answered  her.  It  was 
right  between  them;  though  it  should  be  only  at 
the  end. 

Clear  recollection,  as  it  came  back,  sent  his  thought 


550  THE  GAYWOBTHYS. 

a  moment  after  to  the  live  point  of  pain.  A  great 
groan  surged  up  from  the  depths  of  his  being. 

"  Oh,  mother !  Oh,  Say !  —  Blackmere !  —  The  no 
blest  soul  I  ever  knew  has  gone  out  of  the  world!  " 

And  for  days  after  he  scarcely  spoke  again. 

They  kept  him  quiet.  If  they  had  known  the  sort 
of  quiet  that  it  was ! 

He  lay  there  doing  double  battle ;  his  life  fighting 
for  itself  against  bodily  outrage;  his  love  against  its 
loss. 

Secretly  waging  a  deeper,  more  interior  strife  than 
either,  that  none  else  knew ;  the  truth  that  had  come 
close  to  him  in  an  awful  new  experience,  —  a  some 
thing  different  from  all  experience  of  conscious,  self- 
governed  life,  —  measuring  itself  with  old  doubts ;  re 
solving  slowly,  old  problems  of  obscurity ;  working  out 
a  way  for  him  —  a  strange  and  special  way  —  toward 
the  light. 

He  had  trembled  almost  out  of  life,  —  the  strong 
man,  who  had  never  felt  physical  helplessness,  or  any 
brain-bewilderment  before. 

In  that  mysterious  anaesthesia,  he  had  left  sense 
and  certainty  behind  him,  and  fluttered,  a  naked  soul, 
into  the  void.  He  had  barely,  it  seemed  to  him,  flut 
tered  back.  What  was  it?  He  lay  here,  and  tried 
to  sift,  from  among  fearful  impressions,  what  it  had 
been. 

Days  after,  at  a  moment  when  Say  sat  alone,  by  his 
bedside,  he  spoke  something  of  it  out.  In  words  dif 
ferent  from  any  she  had  heard  from  him  before ;  words 
great  and  full,  with  a  great  pondering. 

"Back  again.  Back  to  my  place.  Say,  I  know 
something  about  it  now.  I  know  what  death  may  be. 
I  know  what  madness  may  be.  I  've  let  go  the  little 
anchorage  we  call  our  life,  and  drifted  out  into  the 
great  emptiness  that  lies  round  it.  Going  out  of  one  's 


LAST,  BUT  NOT  FINAL.  551 

self  is  an  awful  thing !  The  danger  and  the  pain  — 
everything  else  was  nothing  to  that !  I  have  laid  here 
and  thought  of  it,  till  it  seems,  sometimes,  as  if  a  very 
little  would  make  me  let  go  again,  and  drift  away. 
What  is  it  that  we  hold  by?  A  few  little  outside  ap 
pearances,  that  hedge  us  in.  Things  round  us,  that 
we  see,  and  hear,  and  touch.  When  we  lose  these, 
and  go  off  —  is  there  nothing,  any  more?  Say!  I 
seemed  to  leave  all  these ;  they  jumbled  up  together, 
and  fell  away;  and  I  went  out  —  out  —  where  there 
was  nothing! 

"There  was  nothing,  and  there  was  everything. 
It  was  not  sea,  nor  wind,  nor  fire ;  but  it  was  the  pos 
sibility  of  them  all.  The  world  snapped  like  a  bub 
ble,  and  went  out.  There  was  an  emptiness,  —  a 
seething;  as  if  awful  forces  might  break  loose,  and 
take  no  law,  perhaps.  As  if  all  things  were  resolved ; 
and  what  had  made  life,  and  safety,  might  make  any 
thing  ;  any  wild  confusion,  terror,  pain.  I  cannot  tell 
you,  Say ;  my  words  seem  wild ;  but  no  words  could 
be  strong  enough,  or  wild  enough,  to  speak  it. 

"Doesn't  the  Bible  say  something  about  the  'se 
cret  chambers  of  the  Most  High?'  I  feel  as  if  I  had 
been  taken  in  there,  Say! 

"  I  lie  here,  and  think  —  of  Blackmere ;  my  friend 
—  oh,  my  friend !  The  noble,  noble  fellow,  who  gave 
his  life  for  me !  And  I  wonder  if  souls  go  out  into 
this,  when  they  go  wholly  out  of  life !  " 

"'Even  in  the  valley  and  the  shadow  of  death,  I 
will  fear  no  evil,  for  Thou  art  with  me ;  thy  rod  and 
thy  staff,  they  comfort  me.'  'When  thou  passest 
through  the  waters  I  will  be  with  thee ;  and  the  riv 
ers,  they  shall  not  overflow  thee.'  ' 

Say  could  answer  nothing  but  this. 

"  I  cannot  find  it,  Say !  There  was  nothing  there !  " 
This  was  all,  for  long,  that  Gershom  answered  back. 


552  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

And  other  days,  again,  went  by. 

And  they  had  other  talk.  Gershom,  and  his  mo 
ther,  and  Say.  Of  the  storm,  and  the  wreck,  and  the 
saving  of  those  four  men,  only,  out  of  all  the  great 
ship's  company.  Of  what  they  could  easily  fill  out, 
from  the  facts  known  and  their  own  larger  knowledge 
of  the  man,  of  Blackmere's  heroism  and  fate.  Of  his 
"little  girl,"  to  whom  Say  wrote  every  day;  from 
whom  came  such  sweet,  sad,  submissive  answers ;  who 
should  be  their  care  now ;  Gershom  wanted  his  mother 
to  take  her  home  to  Hilbury ;  there  was  money  for 
her, — all  Blackmere's  savings;  Gershom  almost 
wished  there  had  been  nothing,  that  he  might  provide 
for  her;  that  he  might  have  this,  at  least,  to  do  for 
his  friend.  But  they  would  never  lose  her  out  from 
among  themselves;  they  would  give  her  love,  and 
home,  and  cherishing,  for  his  sake. 

And  through  and  under  it  all,  —  all  tender,  almost 
remorseful  sorrow,  and  reverent  memory,  —  through 
all  bodily  pain,  and  slow  convalescence,  and  thoughts 
of  himself  and  his  future,  —  and  even  the  love  of  his 
life,  borne  back  upon  him  so,  and  whispering  an  un- 
syllabled  promise  in  the  midst  of  all,  —  through  every 
thing,  wrought  still,  incessantly,  the  deep  spirit-les 
son,  God,  in  his  own  way,  was  teaching  Gershom 
Vorse. 

He  had  to  sound  the  very  depths.  He  had  to  feel 
what  death  and  the  grave  might  be ;  what  the  viewless 
forces  were,  that  worked  about  his  puny  life ;  he  was 
given  an  awful,  wordless  revelation  of  wreck  and  hor 
ror  that  were  possible.  For  some  mysterious  instants, 
he  had  been  taken  from  out  the  harmonious  working 
and  relation  of  life,  and  thrust  —  a  faint,  trembling 
point  of  consciousness  —  into  the  elemental  waste. 
He  had  felt  the  pregnant  void,  from  which  life  might, 
or  might  not,  according  to  some  Unknown  Will,  be 


LAST,  BUT  NOT  FINAL.  553 

born;  he  had  touched  unfirmamented  space,  where 
seethed  the  unshaped  principles  of  things,  that,  leap 
ing  to  an  equilibrium,  might  coruscate  in  worlds ;  that 
worlds,  with  one  electric  flash,  might  crumble  to, 
again. 

It  lay  in  his  memory ;  it  came  back  to  him  in  the 
nights ;  the  physical  loss  —  the  mutilation  —  he  had 
suffered  was  forgotten  in  this  experience  of  soul  that 
had  come  with  it.  He  thought  of  his  old  talk  with 
Say, — of  the  "strength  of  the  hills;"  of  the  still, 
solid  earth,  and  the  silent  gripe  that  holds  its  atoms; 
of  all  that  he,  that  day,  had  talked  of;  the  fury  and 
riot  of  elemental  and  brute  force,  and  of  human  pas 
sions  ;  of  all  the  horrible  clash  of  Life  with  unheeding 
Law;  and  he  knew  that  nothing  less  than  GOD  was 
in  and  over  it  all. 

That  he  had  never  really  doubted.  But,  man? 
And  what  this  God  would  do  with  him  ? 

He  came  round,  so,  at  last,  to  the  Light. 

As  if  he  had  never  seen  it,  in  all  his  life,  before. 
It  was  given,  now,  a  new  and  special  gift,  to  him. 

One  still,  flushing,  creeping  dawn,  he  lay,  alone 
with  his  deep  thoughts ;  and  it  was  given  to  him. 

Christ! 

It  was  what  He  came  for,  — out  of  the  bosom  of 
the  Almighty.  It  was  what  He  laid  his  finger  on  the 
tempest  for.  What  He  touched  disease  and  discord 
for,  and  set  them  right.  What  He  went  down  into 
the  grave  for,  where  men  must  go ;  and  out  of  its 
blank  and  nothingness  came  back;  in  his  own  glori 
ous,  unharmed  individuality. 

It  was  so  He  saved  the  world ! 

It  was  that  his  words  meant,  that  came  throng 
ing  so. 

"I  am  the  resurrection,  and  the  life.  Whoso  be- 
lieveth  in  me  shall  never  die." 


554  THE  GAY  WORTHY  S. 

"In  my  Father's  house  are  many  mansions." 

"I  go  to  prepare  a  place  for  you.      That  where  I 

am,  ye  may  be  also." 

"Of  all  that  my  Father  hath  given  me,  I  have  lost 

none ;   and  I  will  raise  them  up  at  the  last  day. " 

"Say!  tell  me  the  words  of  the  Creed,  that  you 
used  to  say  on  Sundays,  when  you  were  a  little  girl." 

And  Say  repeated  to  him  the  grand,  Apostolic  con 
fession  of  faith. 

"/  believe,"  he  said,  solemnly  repeating,  when  she 
had  ended  —  in  that  full  manly  tone,  that  had  never 
been  afraid  to  utter  a  belief,  —  "I  believe  in  God,  the 
Father  Almighty;  and  in  his  Son,  Jesus  Christ,  our 
Lord.  Who  was  crucified,  dead,  and  buried.  And 
who  rose  from  the  dead.  I  believe  in  the  Holy  Ghost ; 
the  communion  of  saints;  the  forgiveness  of  sins;  the 
resurrection  from  the  dead ;  and  the  life  everlasting !  " 

There  was  a  deep  silence  between  the  two. 

"Thank  God!      Maimed,  I  have  entered  into  life!  " 

It  was  only  a  whisper;  with  a  hand  over  the 
face,  and  the  face  turned  toward  the  pillow;  but 
Say  heard  it. 

Maimed,  heart  and  body;  yet,  by  divine  paradox, 
a  man  made  whole. 

What  more  is  there  to  tell? 

He  had  come  nearer,  at  last,  to  God,  as  she  had 
said,  —  through  his  fiercer  pain,  and  loss,  and  .wres 
tling,  than  even  she! 

They  could  not  help  what  they  were  to  each  other; 

it  came  to  be  as  it  was  meant. 

"Will  you  take  me  after  all,  Say,  as  I  am?  " 

And  she  took  him  as  he  was ;   not  in  his  first,  young 

achievement,   when  she  had  craved  to  be   nearest  to 


LAST,  BUT  NOT  FINAL.  555 

him ;  when  she  had  longed  to  say,  "  I  had  the  dream 
of  it  with  you,  Gershie ;  I  knew  that  you  would  do  it ; 
it  is  done !  "  Not  in  the  full  pride  of  his  successful 
manhood,  nor  when  she  had  just  proved  herself  to  him, 
and  he  had  owned  her  truth;  not  in  any  way,  accord 
ing  to  any  hope  or  longing  that  was  past ;  in  no  mo 
ment  of  triumph  or  of  surprise,  for  him  or  her ;  in  no 
climax  of  a  common  love-story ;  but  in  quiet  acknow 
ledgment  of  the  truth  that  lay  between  them ;  after  all, 
and  as  he  was ;  under  misfortune ;  his  life  crippled  in 
its  activity;  but  his  soul  whole.  Years  gone  by  that 
might  have  been  years  of  a  young  joy ;  a  fresh,  un 
thinking  love.  Years  come,  with  grief  that  was  dearer 
than  delight ;  with  memories  as  holy  and  as  heart- 
grasping  as  their  hopes. 

There  came  to  be  a  home,  again,  at  the  old  farm ; 
and  the  wide  house  was  full. 

And  Grace  ?  She  was  there,  with  them ;  Aunt  Re 
becca  and  she,  with  their  sweet,  denied  lives,  were  the 
embodied  peace  and  serenity  of  it. 

"The  whole,  great  earth  was  warm  and  close  to 
me,"  Grace  Lowder  said,  "because  there  was  this  love 
in  it  for  me ;  and  now,  all  heaven  is  warm  and  close, 
because  the  love  is  there." 

My  story  does  not  end  as  you  would  have  it  ?  It 
does  not  end,  at  all.  We  make  an  end  of  our  tellings ; 
but  the  stories  of  life  go  on.  You  may  stop  at  a  pain, 
or  at  a  pleasure ;  it  is  all  the  same.  The  threads  run 
on,  and  out  of  sight. 

I  know  there  has  been  more  of  waiting,  here,  than 
of  fulfillment.  That  not  one  life,  of  all  that  are  inter 
woven  in  these  pages,  achieves  a  perfect  earthly  des 
tiny.  That  in  all,  first  or  last,  there  is  something 
missed,  or  failed  of ;  that  each  may  seem,  in  part,  de 
frauded;  that  the  web  is  not  woven  without  flaw  or 


556  THE  GAYWOETHYS. 

break,  and  finished  with  a  hard,  sharp  selvage.  Is 
any,  in  this  mortal  weaving? 

At  the  best,  there  is  always  more  warp  than  woof. 
The  tissue  falls  from  out  the  loom,  at  last,  fringed 
with  the  thrums  of  unfulfilled,  procrastinated  hopes. 
The  threads  float  forth  into  the  infinite. 

Not  yet  —  but  surely  —  shall  an  hour  come,  when 
the  pattern  shall  be  made  complete ;  when  every  fila 
ment  unweft  shall  be  gathered  from  its  aimlessness  or 
its  entanglement,  joined  to  its  own  appointed  fibre  of 
immortal  life,  and  woven  into  the  one,  great,  golden 
web  of  joy ! 


c 

V 


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